BION.
SONNET XVI.
TO REFLECTION.
Hence, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye
Revert again to many a sorrow past?
Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly,
Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast
By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam,
Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam,
As the last splendour of the summer sky.
Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know
To mourn its absence; let them contemplate
The thorny windings of our mortal state,
Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe;
Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow,
Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom,
In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.
BION.
THE WISH.
TO A FRIEND.
The Muse who struck to moral strains the lyre,
Now turns to court a visionary theme,
To frame the wish which flattering hopes inspire,
When fancy revels in her golden dream.
I ask no lone retreat, no shady grove,
Nor grove nor bower can boast a charm for me;
I muse on Justice, Liberty, and Love,
And, need I, Orson! tell my wish to thee?
I bend, great Justice! at thine awful throne,
Eternal arbiter of good and ill,
The sons of soul shall make thy laws their own,
And form their dictates by thy sov'reign will.