Lament that faith can fail, that gods can change,Viewing the rough black seaWith eyes to tempests strange,Who now is basking in your golden smile,And dreams of you still fancy-free, still kind,Poor fool, nor knows the guileOf the deceitful wind!Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloudUntried! For me, they show in yonder faneMy dripping garments, vow'dTo Him who curbs the main.Not I, but Varius:—he, of Homer's broodA tuneful swan, shall bear you on his wing,Your tale of trophies, won by field or flood,Mighty alike to sing.Not mine such themes, Agrippa; no, nor mineTo chant the Wrath that fill'd Pelides' breast,Nor dark Ulysses' wanderings o'er the brine,Nor Pelops' house unblest.Vast were the task, I feeble; inborn shame,