To Goldenhair.
(From Horace.)
Ah, Pyrrha—tell me, whose the happy lot1
To woo thee on a couch of lavish roses—2
Who, bathed in odorous dews, in his fond arms encloses3
Thee, in some happy grot ?4
For whom those nets of golden-gloried hair5
Dost thou entwine in cunning carelessnesses ?6
Alas, poor boy ! Who thee, in fond belief, caresses7
Deeming thee wholly fair !8
How oft shall he thy fickleness bemoan,9
When fair to foul shall change—and he, unskilful10
In pilotage, beholds—with tempests wildly wilful—11
The happy calm o’erthrown !12
He, who now hopes that thou wilt ever prove13
All void of care, and full of fond endearing,14
Knows not that varies more, than Zephyrs ever-veering,15
The fickle breath of Love.16
Ah, hapless he, to whom, like seas untried,17
Thou seemest fair ! That my sea-going’s ended18
My votive tablet proves, to those dark Gods suspended,19
Who o’er the waves preside.20