No more, while through the midnight shade
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray;
Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime she soars,
O, 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 seasons' 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 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. 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 every bliss in wine shall meet.
No more the morn with tepid rays
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,
Usurping darkness shares the day;
Her mists restrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight half reveal'd,
With sighs we view the hoary hill,
The leafless wood, the naked field,
The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill.
No music 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;
Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high;
Light up a constellation here.
Let music 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 music charm-though Stella sings;
Nor love nor wine the Spring restore.
Catch then, O! 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!
Nor only through the wasted plain,
Stern Winter, is thy force confess'd;
Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power usurp my breast.
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 the changeful year,
The slave of sunshine and of gloom.
Tired 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.
EVENING 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 chequer'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,
Evening'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.
WHETHER Stella's eyes are found
Fix'd on earth or glancing round,
If her face with pleasure glow,
If she sigh at others' woe,
If her easy air 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
Pendent gems and rich brocade,
If her chintz with less expense
Flows in easy negligence;
Still she lights the conscious flame,
Still her charms appear the same;
If she strikes the vocal strings,
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move,
Still we love, and still approve.
Vain the casual, transient glance
Which alone can please by chance,
Beauty, which depends on art,
Changing with the changing art,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendent gems and rich brocade.
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