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'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay,
Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flowers of Spring are fwept away,
And Summer fruits defert the bough.
The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze,
Now trod in duft neglected lie,

As Boreas ftrips the bending trees.
The fields that wav'd with golden grain,
As ruffet 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 pleafing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime fhe foars,
O! would fome god but wings fupply!
To where each morn the Spring reftores,
Companion of her flight I'd fly.
Vain with me fate compels to bear
The downward feafons iron reign,
Compels to breathe polluted air,
And fhiver on a blafted plain.

What blifs to life can Autumn yield,

If glooms, and fhowers, and ftorms 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 darkening hour?
The grape remains! the friend of wit,
In love, and mirth, of mighty power.
VOL. XI.

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Hafte

Hafte-prefs the clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo fhoot thy parting ray:
This gives the funshine of the foul,

This god of health, and verse, and day.
Still-ftill the jocund ftrain fhall flow,
The pulfe with vigorous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms fhall glow,
.And every blifs in wine fhall meet.

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WINTER,

AN OD E.

O more the morn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon fpreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve diftills the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,
Ufurping darknefs fhares the day;
Her mifts reftrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful fway.
By gloomy twilight half reveal'd,

With fighs we view the hoary hill,
The leaflefs wood, the naked field,
The fnow-topt cot, the frozen rill.
No mufick warbles thro' the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain;
No more with devious fteps I rove
Thro' verdant paths now fought in vain.
Aloud the driving tempeft roars,

Congeal'd, impetuous fhowers defcend;
Hafte, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

2

In

In nature's aid let art fupply

With light and heat my little sphere ;
Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high,
Light up a conftellation here.

Let musick found the voice of joy!
Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
Let love his wanton wiles employ,
And o'er the feason wine prevail.
Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When mirth's gay tale fhall please no more; Nor mufick charm-tho' Stella fings ;

Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore.
Catch then, O! catch the tranfient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies;
Life's a fhort Summer-man a flower,
He dies-alas! how foon he dies!

THE WINTER'S WALK.

BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove,
What dreary profpects round us rife ;
The naked hill, the leaflefs grove,
The hoary ground, the frowning fkies!
Nor only thought the wafted plain,
Stern Winter in thy force confefs'd;
Still wider fpreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power ufurp my breaft.
Enlivening hope, and fond defire,

Refign the heart to fpleen and care;
Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,
And rapture faddens to defpair.

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In groundless hope, and caufelefs fear,
Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
Still changing with the changeful year,
The flave of funfhine and of gloom.
Tir'd with vain joys, and falfe 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*.

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HOUGH gold and filk their charms unite
To make thy curious web delight,
In vain the varied work would fhine,
If wrought by any hand but thine;
Thy hand that knows the subtler art,
To weave thofe nets that catch the heart.
Spread out by me, the roving coin
Thy nets may catch, but not confine;
Nor can I hope thy filken chain
The glittering vagrants fhall restrain.
Why, Stella, was it then decreed

The heart once caught fhould ne'er be freed?

* Printed among Mrs. Williams's Mifcellanies.

To

To Mifs *****

ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES

OF HER OWN PAINTING *.

WHEN

HEN Stella ftrikes the tuneful ftring
In fcenes of imitated Spring,

Where beauty lavishes her powers
On beds of never-fading flowers,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated found;
Ah! think not in the dangerous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flower,
But fhun, rafh youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the fnares of wily love.

When charms thus prefs on every fenfe,
What thought of flight, or of defence?
Deceitful hope, and vain defire,
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, fprightly, fair, and young,
One moment hear the moral fong,
Inftruction with her flowers might spring,
And wisdom warble from her ftring.

* Printed among Mrs. Williams's Mifcellanies.

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