Od. I. 14. 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.