If one—while tossed, as was my lot to be,
In a frail bark urged by two slender oars 120
Over waves rough and deep,[79] that, when they broke,
Dashed their white foam against the palace walls
Of Genoa the superb—should there be led
To meditate upon his own appointed tasks,
However humble in themselves, with thoughts 125
Raised and sustained by memory of Him
Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds
Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit’s strength