To The State. I-14 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back,         Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack,         Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack.         Behold! thy mast lies shattered before the swift south wind,         Listen! the yards are creaking, the ropes no longer bind,         Strength to endure the boisterous waves thy keel can hardly find.         Now all thy sails are ragged; the gods are swept away         To whom, borne down by peril, thy quaking soul would pray.         Though lofty be thy lineage, its pride is vain today.         The power and name thou boastest are now of no avail,         Thy stern is gayly painted, and still thy seamen quail,         Beware lest thou art made the sport of every idle gale.         Ah! dearly loved, my country; my fond yet heavy care!         Thy discords lately wearied me, but now I breathe a prayer         That thee the tides of faction, the glittering rocks may spare.