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From false caresses, causeless strife,
When best enjoy'd—when most improv❜d. Teach me, thou venerable bower,
Cool meditation's quiet seat,
Here let me learn to shun the crimes,
Bright wisdom, teach me Curio's art,
O PHOEBUS! down the western sky,
And wake them to the cares of day.
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! Refresh me with a cooling air,
And cheer me with a lambent light: Lay me, where o'er the verdant ground Her living carpet nature spreads; Where the green bow'r, with roses crown'd, In show'rs its fragrant foliage sheds; Improve the peaceful hour with wine;
Let musick die along the grove; Around the bowl let myrtles twine, And ev'ry strain be tun'd to love.
Come, Stella, queen of all my heart!
Thy voice perpetual love inspires. Whilst, all my wish and thine complete, By turns we languish and we burn, Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs-murmuring brooks return. Let me, when nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretell, Sink on the down of Stella's breast, And bid the waking world farewell.
ALAS! with swift and silent pace,
Impatient time rolls on the year; The seasons change, and nature's face
Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe. "Twas spring, 'twas summer, all was gay,
Now autumn bends a cloudy brow; The flow'rs of spring are swept away,
And summer-fruits desert the bough. The verdant leaves, that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze, Now, trod in dust, neglected lie,
As Boreas strips the bending trees. The fields, that wav'd with golden grain, As russet heaths, are wild and bare; Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain, Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there. No more, while through the midnight shade, Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray, Soft pleasing woes my heart invade, As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime she soars,
The downward season's iron reign;
And shiver on a blasted plain. What bliss to life can autumn yield,
If glooms, and show'rs, and storms prevail, And Ceres flies the naked field,
And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail? Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
To cheer me in the dark'ning hour!
In love, and mirth, of mighty pow'r.
This god of health, and verse, and day. Still still the jocund strain shall flow,
The pulse with vig'rous rapture beat; My Stella with new charms shall glow, And ev'ry bliss in wine shall meet.
No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Usurping darkness shares the day;
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight, half reveal'd,
The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill.
No vivid colours paint the plain; No more, with devious steps, I rove
Through verdant paths, now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars,
Congeal'd, impetuous show'rs descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.
With light and heat my little sphere;
Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
And o'er the season wine prevail. Yet time life's dreary winter brings,
When mirth's gay tale shall please no more Nor musick charm-though Stella sings;
Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore.
THE WINTER'S WALK. BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove,
What dreary prospects round us rise; The naked hill, the leafless grove,
The hoary ground, the frowning skies!
Nor only through the wasted plain,
Resign the heart to spleen and care;
And rapture saddens to despair.
Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
The slave of sunshine and of gloom.
With mental and corporeal strife,
ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING'.
THOUGH gold and silk their charms unite
The heart, once caught, should ne'er be freed?
e And hide me from the sight of life. 1st edition.
f Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.