All moves on its race;
My place has no fixture,
My fixture no place.
1827.* ——- JOY AND SORROW.
As a fisher-boy I fared
To the black rock in the sea,
And, while false gifts I prepared.
Listen'd and sang merrily,
Down descended the decoy,
Soon a fish attack'd the bait;
One exultant shout of joy,—
And the fish was captured straight.
Ah! on shore, and to the wood
Past the cliffs, o'er stock and stone,
One foot's traces I pursued,