WHAT youth, of grace in look and limb,

On pillowing roses wooes thee now,

Beneath the grotto's arching brow,

While liquid odors round thee swim?

For whom dost bind thine auburn hair

In simple neatness witching fair?

Ah, often, often shall he weep

Thy fickle faith, the gods unkind,

And marvel at the sudden wind

That roughens all the scowling deep,

Where erst he knew a gentle breeze

That lightly kissed the dimpling seas.

He suns him in thy golden face;

Fond fool! to hope that thou wilt be

Forever kind, forever free!

And, in the sunlight of thy grace,

In sooth but little doth he know

If breeze or hurricane shall blow!

Ah, woe to them by thee ensnared!

But they thy siren face who flee,

Like sailors that escape the sea,

From shipwreck and destruction spared,

Shall raise a votive stone at last,

A monument of dangers past.

C. F. L.