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'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay,
Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flowers of Spring are swept 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 way'd with golden grain,
As ruffet heaths, are wild and bare;
Not moift with dew, but drench'd with rain,
Nor health, nor pleafure, wanders there.
No more while through the midnight fhade,
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,
Soft pleafing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime the 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 season's iron reign,
Compels to breathe polluted air,

And shiver on a blasted 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.

Hafte

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

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

WINTER,

AN ODE.

No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve diftills the dew.
The ling'ring hours prolong the night,
Ufurping Darkness 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 through the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain;

No more with devious fteps I rove
Through 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.

In

In nature's aid let art fupply

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

Let mufick found the voice of joy,
Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
Let Love his wanton wiles employ,
› And o'er the feafon wine prevail.
Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When Mirth's gay tale shall please no moré;
Nor mufick charm-though Stella fings;
Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore.
Catch then, O! catch the tranfient hour,
Improve each moment as it fles;

Life's a fhort fummer-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 skies!
Nor only thought the wafted plain,
Stern Winter in thy force confefs'd;
Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power ufurp my breatt.
Enlivening hope, and fond defire,

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

In groundless hope, and causeless fear,
Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
Still changing with thy changeful year,
The flave of funshine and of gloom.
Tir'd with vain joys, and falfe alarms,
With mental and corporeal ftrife,
Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
And fcreen me from the ills of life.

To Mifs *****

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

WEAVING *.

THOUGH gold and filk their charms unit●

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 fubtler 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 filken chain
The glitt'ring vagrants fhall reftrain.
Why, Stella, was it 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 Stella ftrikes 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 found;
Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour,
The Nymph fictitious as the flow'r;
But fhun, rafh youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the fnares of wily love.

When charms thus prefs on ev'ry sense,
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 Miscellanies:

Mark,

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