From Otia Sacra
By MildMay Fane.
He only happy is, and wise
Can run his barque when tempests rise,
Know how to lay the helm and steer,
Lie on a track, port and career,
Sometimes to weather, then to lee,
As waves give way and winds agree;
Nor boom at all in such a stress,
But by degrees loomless and less.
Ride out a storm with no more loss
Than the endurance of a toss;
For though he cannot well bear sail
In such a fresh and powerful gale,
Yet when there is no other shift,
Think't not amiss to ride a drift;
To shut down ports and tyers to bale in,
To seal the hatch up with tarpalin;
To ply the pump and no means slack
May clear her bilge and help from wrack;
To take in cloth and, in a word,
Unlade and cut the mast by board.
So spoon before the winds and seas,
When though she'll roll, she'll go at ease;
And not so strained as if laid under
The wave that threatens sudden founder;
And whilst the fury and the rage
Leaves little hope for anchorage;
Yet if she can but make a coast
In any time, she'll not be lost,
But in affection's bay will find
A harbour suited to her mind.