Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre First breath'd the voice of music on our isle; Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire, Old CHAUCER slowly sunk at last to night; Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, A firmer, nobler monument remain, When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; And yet the cankering tooth of envious age Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, And piercing through the shadowy mist of time, The festive Bard of EDWARD's court recall, As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall. 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. * * * * * SONNET VIII. _TO HAPPINESS._