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From this capricious clime she soars,
Oh! would some god but wings supply! To where each morn the spring restores,
Companion of her flight I'd fly. Vain wish! me fate compels to bear
The downward season's irou reign; Compels to breathe polluted air,
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 ! The grape remains ! the friend of wit,
In love, and mirth, of mighty pow'r. Haste-press the clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo! shoot thy parting ray: This gives the sunshine of the soul,
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,
Unfolds the flow'r of various hue;
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
Usurping darkness shares the day;
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight, half reveald,
With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field,
The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill. No musick warbles through the grove,
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,
Congeald, impetuous show'rs descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend. In nature's aid, let art supply
With light and heat my little sphere; Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high,
Light up a constellation here. Let musick sound the voice of joy,
Or mirth repeat the jocund tale ; Let love his wanton wiles employ,
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. Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a short summer-man a flow'r:
He dies—alas ! how soon he dies !
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,
Stern winter! is thy force confess'd ; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy pow'r usurp my breast. Enliv'ning hope, and fond desire,
Resign the heart to spleen and care;
And rapture saddens to despair.
Unhappy man! behold thy doom ;
The slave of sunshine and of gloom. Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,
With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
And screen me from the ills of life.
TO MISS *****
ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK
NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING'.
Though gold and silk their charms unite
Spread out by me, the roving coin
e And hide me from the sight of life. Ist edition.
WHEN Stella strikes the tuneful string,
When charms thus press on ev'ry sense,
But on those regions of delight
Mark, when from thousand mingled dies
& Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
Mark, when the different notes agree
EVENING; AN ODE.
Ev'NING now from purple wings