Far from the Shore the wily  waits
The coming Ship, but him the Sailor hates.
Slender his Shape, his Length a Cubit ends;
No beauteous Spot the gloomy Race commends;
An Eel-like clinging Kind, of dusky Looks;
His Jaws display tenacious Rows of Hooks.
But in strange Pow'r the puny Fish excells,
Beyond the boasted Art of Magick Spells.
Oft Seamen tell, but few the Tale believe,
Or own those Truths they cannot well conceive.
Men think they know all Nature's secret Laws,
Her Pow'rs define, and trace each hidden Cause.
Full of himself the Sceptick over-wise
Oft real Facts, because unseen, denies.
To strange Effects, when prov'd, no Credit gives,
Feeds his false Doubt, and thus himself deceives.
The  beneath with secret Chains
Clung to the Keel the swiftest Ship detains.
The Seamen run confus'd, no Labour's spar'd,
Let fly the Sheets, and hoist the topmost Yard.
The Master bids them give her all the Sails,
To court the Winds, and catch the coming Gales.
But tho' the Canvas bellies with the Blast,
And boist'rous Winds bend down the cracking Mast,
The Bark stands firmly rooted in the Sea,
And will unmov'd nor Winds, nor Waves obey.
Still, as when Calms have flatted all the Plain,
And Infant Waves scarce wrinkle on the Main.
No Ship in Harbour moor'd so careless rides,
When ruffling Waters tell the flowing Tides.
Appall'd the Sailors stare, thro' strange Surprize
Believe they dream, and rub their waking Eyes.