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 distils the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,
Usurping darkness shares the day;
Her mists restrain the force of light,
And Phœbus 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 topt cot, the frozen rill.
No musick warbles thro’ the grove,
No vivid colours paint the plain;
No more with devious steps I rove
Thro’ 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;
Nor musick charm—tho’ 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!