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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 irou reign; Compels to breathe polluted air,

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

If glooms, and show'rs, and storms 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 dark’ning hour ! The grape remains ! the friend of wit,

In love, and mirth, of mighty pow'r. 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 vig'rous 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 flow'r of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
The ling'ring hours prolong the night,

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

And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.

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By gloomy twilight, half reveald,

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

The snow-topp'd 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,

Congeald, impetuous show'rs 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; Rouse, rouse 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 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 flow'r:

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 through the wasted plain,

Stern winter! is thy force confess'd ; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,

I feel thy pow'r usurp my breast. Enliv'ning 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 the 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

NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING'.

Though gold and silk 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 pets 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 glittring vagrants shall restrain.
Why, Stella, was it then decreed,
The heart, once caught, should ne'er be freed?

e And hide me from the sight of life. Ist edition.
Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.

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WHEN Stella strikes the tuneful string,
In scenes of imitated spring,
Where beauty lavishes her pow'rs
On beds of never-fading flow’rs,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not, in the dang'rous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flow'r;
But shun, rash 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.

Mark, when from thousand mingled dies
Thou seest one pleasing form arise,
How active light, and thoughtful shade
In greater scenes each other aid;

& Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.

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 musick teach the nobler art,
To tune the regulated heart.

EVENING; AN ODE.

TO STELLA.

Ev'NING now from purple wings
Sheds the grateful gifts she brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
Cooling breezes shake the reed;
Shake the reed, and curl the stream,
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam;
Near the checquer'd, lonely grove,
Hears, and keeps thy secrets, love.
Stella, thither let us stray,
Lightly o’er the dewy way.
Phoebus drives his burning car
Hence, my lovely Stella, far;
In his stead, the queen of night
Round us pours a lambent light;
Light, that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow.
Let us now, in whisper'd joy,
Ev'ning's silent hours employ;
Silence best, and conscious shades,
Please the hearts that love invades;
Other pleasures give them pain,
Lovers all but love disdain.

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