SONNET I.
TO ARISTE.
Ariste! soon to sojourn with the crowd,
In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go;
Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show,
Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud.
I go: but still my soul remains with thee,
Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms,
Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see,
And every pulse will vibrate with alarms.
When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale,
When envy at a rival's beauty sighs,
When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail,
And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes,
I turn my wearied soul to her for ease,
Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.
BION.
SONNET II.
Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast
The glow of genius never could inspire;
Who never, by the future song possest,
Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre.
Let him invoke the Muses from their grove,
Who never felt the inspiring touch of love.
If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze
Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view,
Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise,
Where only from the minstrel praise is due,
I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays,
My Muse, Ariste, would be found in you!
And need I court the goddess when I move
The warbling lute to sound the soul of love?
BION.
