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.