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Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay. 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 iron reign, Compels to breathe polluted air,
And shiver 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. 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 vigorous rapture beat; My Stella with new charms shall glow,
And ev'ry bliss in wine shall meet.
W I N T E R,
No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
Usurping Darkness shares the day;
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 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, ;
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 ; Vor 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 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!
Stern Winter! is thy force confess'd;
Enlivening 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.
On her giving the Author a Gold and Silk Net-Work
Purse of her own Weaving*.
Spread out by me, the roving coin
On her playing upon the Harpsichord in a Room hung
with Flower-Pieces of her own Paintingt. When Stella strikes the tuneful string In scenes of imitated Spring, * Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
Where Beauty lavishes her powers
When charms thus press on ev'ry sense,
But on those regions of delight
song, Instruction with her flowers might spring, And wisdom warble from her string.
Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes Thou seest one pleasing form arise, How active light, and thoughtful shade, In greater scenes each other aid ; Mark, when the different notes agree In friendly contrariety, How passion's well-accorded strife Gives all the harmony of life; Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame, Consistent still, though not the same; Thy music teach thy nobler art, To tune the regulated heart.
EVENING: AN ODE.
EVENING now from purple wings
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
TO THE SAME.
If her easy
Whether Stella's eyes are found
express Conscious worth, or soft distress, Stella's
eyes, and air, and face, Charm with undiminish'd grace.
If on her we see display'd
gems, and rich brocade,