Wounded by tempests is thy mast;
Thy sail-yards groan beneath the blast;
Nor can thy keel, uncabled, brave
The swelling of th’ imperious wave.
Torn are thy sails! nor Gods hast thou,
When danger threats, to hear thy vow.
Though born of noblest wood, ’twas thine
To tower a vigorous Pontic pine;
’Tis vain thy race, thy name, to prize:
Nought on his painted stern relies