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 he 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 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 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 he 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 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 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 he dies!