Who sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,
The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore:—
Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy green
The azure heights of Ithaca are seen;
But while with favouring gales her way she wins,
His curious comrades ope the mystic skins:
When lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,
Roar to the clouds, and lash the rocking deep;
Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,
Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast.