Nymph of the splendent eye and rosy cheek, Who erst from courts and luxury didst speed, And with thine elder sister, Temperance, seek The woodbin'd cottage on the daisied mead; There will I woo thee, for thou dwellest there Amid the sons of industry; thy smile Soothes every sorrow, cheers the hour of toil, And, blest by thee, sweet is their frugal fare. When the woods echo with the early horn Thou trip'st the wild heath, clad in flowing vest, (While youthful zephyr wantons o'er thy breast) And, with blithe song, dost greet the blushing morn; The airy sprite, who o'er thy fair form roves, Thy beauty tastes, and, as he tastes, improves. MOSCHUS. * * * * * SONNET XV. _TO THE NIGHTINGALE._ Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, As by thy wonted haunts again I rove; Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay? For faintly fades the sinking orb of day, And yet thy music charms no more the grove. The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour; Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood No longer need thy care to cull their food, And nothing now remains to prompt the song: But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to the lay of love. 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?