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

Now Autuinn 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 strips the bending trees. The fields that wav'd with golden grain,

As ruflet heaths, are wild and bare ; Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain,

Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there. No inore while through the midnight shade,

Beneath the inoon's pale orb I ftray, Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,

As Progne pours the melting lay. From this capricious clime the foars,

0! 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 iron reign, Compels to breathe polluted air,

And Ihiver on a blasted plain. What bliss to life can Autumn yield,

If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail'; And Ceres flies 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 remains ! the friend of wit,
In love, and mirth, of mighty power.

Kaste press the clusters, fill the bowl;

Apollo ! shoot thy parting ray: This gives the funshine of the foul,

This god of health, and verse, and day. Still — still the jocund strain shall flow,

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

And ev'ry bliss in wine shall 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 distills the dew.
The ling'ring hours prolong the night,

Usurping Darkness shares the day ;
Her mists restrain the force of light,

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

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

The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill. No mufick warbles through the grove,

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

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

Congeald, imperuous showers descend ; Hafte, close the window, bar the doors,

Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In

In nature's aid let art supply
With light and heat niy

little sphere; Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high,

Light up a constellation here. Let mufick 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 — though Stella fings;

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

Improve each moment as it fles; 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 rise ; 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 breatt. Enlivening hope,' and fond desire,

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

In groundless hope, and causeless fear,

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

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 NET-WORK PURSE OF HER OWN

WEAVING *.

THOUGH gold and filk their charms unite
To make thy curious web delight,
In vain the varied work would shine,
If 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 filken chain
The glitt'ring vagrants shall restrain,
Why, Stella, was it it then decreed
The heart once caught should ne'er be freed?

To Miss *****

ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD IN

A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES

OF HER OWN PAINTING *.

WHEN 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 found;
Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour,
The Nymph fictitious as the flow'r;
But Thun, rath youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love.

When charms thus press on ev'ry sense,
What thought of flight, 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.