ODE. In imitation of Horace his Ode. Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ Perfusus, &c. Lib. 1. Od. 5.

TO whom now Pyrrha, art thou kinde?
To what heart-ravisht Lover,
Dost thou thy golden locks unbinde,
Thy hidden sweets discover,
And with large bounty open set
All the bright stores of thy rich Cabinet?

Ah simple Youth, how oft will he
Of thy chang'ed Faith complain?
And his own Fortunes finde to be
So airy and so vain,
Of so Camaeleon- like an hew,
That still their colour changes with it too?

How oft, alas, will he admire
The blackness of the Skies?
Trembling to hear the Winds sound higher,
And see the billows rise;
Poor unexperienc'ed He
Who ne're, alas, before had been at Sea!

He'enjoys thy calmy Sun-shine now,
And no breath stirring hears,
In the clear heaven of thy brow,
No smallest Cloud appears.
He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay,
And trusts the faithless April of thy May.

Unhappy! thrice unhappy He,
T'whom Thou untry'ed dost shine!
But there's no danger now for Me,
Since o're Loretto's Shrine
In witness of the Shipwrack past
My consecrated Vessel hangs at last.