MOSCHUS.
SONNET XI.
TO THE FIRE.
My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,
Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;
Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,
Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame.
I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,
I love to pause in meditation's sway;
And whilst each object gives reflection birth,
Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:
And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,
Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer;
And wish at last, in life's declining scene,
As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear:
So might my children ponder o'er my shrine,
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.
BION.
SONNET XII.
THE FADED FLOWER.
Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way,
Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk,
Then past along, and left thee to decay.
Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen
Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem,
I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem,
But left thy blossom still to grace the green;
And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Emma's tomb;
"Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride!
O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy."
BION.