AUTUMN; AN ODE.

Alas! with swift and silent pace,
  Impatient time rolls on the year;
The seasons change, and nature’s face
  Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe,
’Twas spring, ’twas summer, all was gay,
  Now autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flow’rs of spring are swept away,
  And summer-fruits desert the bough. 
The verdant leaves, that play’d on high,
  And wanton’d on the western breeze,
Now, trod in dust, neglected lie,
  As Boreas strips the bending trees. 
The fields, that way’d with golden grain,
  As russet heaths, are wild and bare;
Not moist with dew, but drench’d with rain,
  Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there. 
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,
  Oh! 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 season’s iron reign;
Compels to breathe polluted air,
  And shiver on a blasted plain. 
What bliss to life can autumn yield,
  If glooms, and show’rs, 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 dark’ning hour! 
The grape remains! the friend of wit,
  In love, and mirth, of mighty pow’r. 
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 vig’rous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms shall glow,
  And ev’ry bliss in wine shall meet.

WINTER; AN ODE.

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.