(Carm. I., 5.) What slim youth, whose love-locks flow
Wet with unguents, courteth thee,
Pyrrha, where the roses blow,
And the rocks cool shadows throw
On the grotto floor below?

Tell me, tell me, who is he
For whom now thou bind'st thine hair—
Hair of gold, so witchingly
With that artful, careless care?

  ― 194 ―
Ah, how oft he shall bewail
Broken vow and gods estranged!—
Unaccustomed to the gale
Blackening the erst sunny sea,—
Marvel that the sea is changed!—

He who now so trustingly
Finds in thee a golden joy,—
Ever lovely, ever free,—
From love of all save him for ever—
Poor silly boy!
Hopes that thou—that thou—wilt be;
And thinketh never
How soon arise
Fiercest storms in fairest skies!

Wretched they, to whom thou seemest
Bright for aye, as now thou gleamest!—
Thou no more hast power o'er me—
Votive slab on sacred wall

Tells how I most gratefully,
To the God who rules the sea,
Hung my dripping garments there;
For he listened to my call,
Ere I sank, he heard my prayer—
I no longer think thee fair!