No more tire 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. 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 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, Congeal'd, 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[a]. [a] And _hide_ me from the _sight_ of life. 1st edition. TO MISS **** ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING[a]. 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 nets 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 glitt'ring vagrants shall restrain. Why, Stella, was it then decreed, The heart, once caught, should ne'er be freed? [a] Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. TO MISS **** ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD, IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF HER OWN PAINTING[a].