Hic Me, Pater Optime, Fessam Deseris

Ere yet in Vergil I could scan or spell, Or through the enchanted portal of that lay Dear to old Rome had found my faltering way, How oft with heaving breast I heard thee tell Of horrors that the Trojan fleet befell: How for a time they were the tempest’s prey, And how at last into a little bay Their boats came gliding on the peaceful swell. There, though thick shade might threaten from above, Were rest and peace, nor any need to roam. Alas! I did not dream how soon for thee, Best father, sweetest friend, the quiet cove Would stretch its arms, while I, half blind with foam, Should still be tossing on the open sea.