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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 every bliss in wine shall meet.

WINTER.

AN ODE.

BY THE SAME.

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 Phæbus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloony twilight balf reveald,

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

The snow-topt 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 our 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 lie dies!

WINTER.

AN ODE.

BY THE SAME.

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 gloony twilight half reveald,

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

The snow-topt 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.

1

In nature's aid let art supply

With light and heat our 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 lour,

Improve cach moment as it flies; Life's a short Summer-man a flower,

He diesmalas! how soon le dics!

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