BION.
SONNET VI.
As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell
Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom,
Alone and pensive, in my silent room,
On man and on mortality I dwell.
And as the harbinger of death I hear
Frequent and full, much do I love to muse
On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear;
And passion varying her camelion hues,
And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade,
'Till death dissolves the vision. So the child
In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd,
As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd;
Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play,
Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.
BION.
SONNET VII.
WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY.
As o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes,
Weary and sad, his wayward fancy strays
To scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raise
The transient joy which memory bestows;
And oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom,
He paints the approaching scene in colours gay:
So I, to cheer me in life's rugged way,
Or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to come.
But ah! reflection vainly we employ
On pleasures past, and fugitive the joy
When the mind rests on hope's delusive power;
Blest only they who present joys can taste,
Nor fear the future, nor regret the past,
But happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour.
MOSCHUS.