[from Collected Works, T.E.Brown]


SCARCE loosed from Crete—
Then, borne on wings of flame
And sleet,
The Euroclydon came.

Strained yard, bent mast,
With fury of his mouth
The blast
Compels us to the South

Canst see, for spume
And mist, and writhen air,
A loom
Of Clauda anywhere?

Balked hopes, fooled wit!
Ah soul, to gain this loss,
Didst quit
The shelter of His cross?

Dear Lord, if Thou
Wouldst walk upon the sea,
My prow
Unblenched should turn to Thee.

Wind roars, wave yelps—
To Thy blest side I’d slip,
Use helps,
And undergird the ship.


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