Say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell? Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene, In pomp of courts, and in the rural green, Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell. Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few, We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go; Tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue, And sighing, says, thou dwellest not below. Does he not after fairy shadows run? Follows he not some wild illusive dream, Like children who would catch the radiant sun, Grasp at its image in the glittering stream? If right he sought, then man would meet success, For surely "Virtue leads to happiness." MOSCHUS. * * * * * SONNET IX. Mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course? Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats? Lightly it drifts along, and well denotes The light impression on the youthful breast, Which, in life's summer, transiently imprest, Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force: But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns, Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd, And on its bosom, where of late it play'd, Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains. Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar, Freezes the genial flow of mental power, The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store, Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour. MOSCHUS. * * * * * SONNET X. _TO FAME._ On the high summit of yon rocky hill, Proud Fame! thy temple stands, and see around What thronging thousands press; and hark! the sound That fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill. Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd, And oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim; And many spurn at justice' sacred name, And "wade to glory through a sea of blood." Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd, And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloud Upon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice, I'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere, More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hear The approving whispers of her still small voice. MOSCHUS. * * * * * SONNET XI. _TO THE FIRE._