The Ship of State under Myrsilus

The winds' fierce strife I understand no longer;
The rolling billows e'er are towering stronger,
Now here, now there. We, tempest-tossed,
In the black ship between are lost.

The fury of the storm our limbs is chilling,
The ship with water to the mast-hole filling.
Great rifts in every sail are torn,
To shreds our slackening cables worn.

* * *

Now comes a wave o'ertopping those before,
Upon the ship its waters piling o'er,
And we to bail must labor evermore.