'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay,

Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow; The Aowers 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 in rain,

Nor health, nor pleasure wanders there.
No more while thro' 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 lhe foars,

O! would some god but wings supply! To where each morn the Spring restores,

Companion of her fight I'd Ay. Vain wish! me fate compels to bear

The downward seasons iron reign, Compels to breathe polluted air,

And shiver on a blasted plain. What bliss to life can Autuinn yield,

If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail; And Ceres Aies the naked field,

And flowers, and fruits, and Phæbus fail? Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,

To cheer me in the darkening hour? The grape reinains! the friend of wit,

In love, and mirth, of nighty power. VOL. XI.

Аа

Harte

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 now,

The pulse with vigorous rapture beat; My Stella with new charms shall glow,

And every bliss in wine shall meet.

W I N T E R,

AN O D E.

NO

O more the morn, with tepid rays,

Unfolds the flower of various hue ;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distills the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,

Ufurping darkness shares the day;
Her mits restrain the force of light,

And Phæbus holds a doubtful sway. By gloomy twilight half reveald,

With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field,

The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill. No musick warbles thro' the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain ; No more with devious steps I rove

Thro' verdant paths now fought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeal’d, impetuous showers 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 ;
Rouze, rouze 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 mufick charm-tho' Stella fings;

Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore. Catch then, O! catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it Mies; Life's a short Summer-man a flower,

He dies-alas! how soon he dies !

THE WINTER'S WALK, BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove,

What dreary prospects round us rile; The naked hill, the leafless grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies ! Nor only thought the wasted plain,

Stern Winter in thy force confess’d; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,

I feel thy power usurp my breast. Enlivening hope, and fond desire,

Resign the heart to spleen and care ; Scarce frighted love maintains her fire, And rapture saddens to despair.

A a 2

In

In groundless hope, and causeless fear,

Unhappy man ! behold thy doom; Still changing with the changeful year,

The Nave of sunshine and of gloom. Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,

With mental and corporeal ftrife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,

And screen me from the ills of life.

To Mifs *****

ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND
SILK NET-WORK PURSE OF HER

OWN WEAVING*.

TH

If

HOUGH gold and silk their charms unite

To make thy curious web delight, In vain the varied work would shine,

wrought by any hand but thine ;
Thy hand that knows the subtler art,
To weave those nets that catch the heart.

Spread out by me, the roving coin
Thy nets may catch, but not confine;
Nor can I hope thy silken chain
The glittering vagrants shall restrain.
Why, Stella, was it then decreed
The heart once caught should ne'er be freed?

* Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanios.

Το

To Miss **

ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD IN

A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES

OF HER OWN PAINTING *.

WHEN

Hen Stella strikes the tuneful string

In scenes of imitated Spring,
Where beauty lavishes her powers
On beds of never-fading flowers,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not in the dangerous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flower,
But shun, ralh youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love.

When charms thus press on every sense,
What thought of Aight, or of defence ?
Deceitful hope, and vain desire,
For ever flutter o'er her lyre,
Delighting as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye,
And forming with unerring art
New chains to hold the captive heart.

But on those regions of delight
Might truth intrude with daring flight,
Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,
One moment hear the moral song,
Instruction with her flowers might spring,
And wisdom warble from her string.

* Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.

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How