To Goldenhair. (FROM HORACE.)

Ah, Pyrrha—tell me, whose the happy lot To woo thee on a couch of lavish roses— Who, bathed in odorous dews, in his fond arms encloses Thee, in some happy grot? For whom those nets of golden-gloried hair Dost thou entwine in cunning carelessnesses? Alas, poor boy! Who thee, in fond belief, caresses Deeming thee wholly fair! How oft shall he thy fickleness bemoan, When fair to foul shall change—and he, unskilful In pilotage, beholds—with tempests wildly wilful— The happy calm o’erthrown! He, who now hopes that thou wilt ever prove All void of care, and full of fond endearing, Knows not that varies more, than Zephyrs ever-veering, The fickle breath of Love. Ah, hapless he, to whom, like seas untried, Thou seemest fair! That my sea-going’s ended My votive tablet proves, to those dark Gods suspended, Who o’er the waves preside. Thomas Hood.