Such lots, alas, in this decrepit age
Are rare; Polycrates might wear his ring,
Nor fear to rouse the avenging goddess’ rage.
Seeking the upper chambers where we cling,
The cruel wave mounts upward step by step,
Mingling its murmur with our revelling,
Till slimy phocas, shapes that banish sleep,
Gnash foully at our very bedsides there,
Belched from the bowels of the nether deep.
The church is dark, the altar cold and bare,