To a Ship

YET on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,
O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav’n, and there
Rest thee: for lo! thy side
Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
Yield must thy keel at last
On pitiless sea-waves tossed

Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,
Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:—
Though thou—a Pontic pine,
Child of a stately forest,—

Boastest high name and empty pedigree,
Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:
Stay, unless doomed to be
The plaything of the gale.

Flee—what of late sore burden was to me,
Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,—
Those shining Cyclads flee
That stud the far-off main.