The Return Home, 11

In their grey-hued clouds envelop’d,
Now the mighty gods are sleeping;
And I listen to their snoring,
Stormy weather o’er us creeping.

Stormy weather! Raging tempests
On the poor ship bring disaster;
On these winds who’ll place a bridle,--
On these waves that own no master?

I the storm can never hinder,
Nor the mast and planks from creaking,
So I wrap me in my mantle,
Like the gods for slumber seeking.