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Come, Stella, queen of all my heart!
Come, born to fill its vast desires ! Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires. Whilst all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish and we burn, Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs-murmuring brooks return. Let me, when nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretel, Sink on the down of Stella's breast,
And bid the waking world farewell.
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 flowers 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 th' bending trees. The fields that wav'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 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 ev'ry bliss in wine shall meet.
No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
Usurping Darkness shares the day;
And Phæbus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight half reveald,
With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field,
The snow-topt 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,
Congeald, 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--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 flower:
He dies--alas ! how soon he dies !
THE WINTER'S WALK.
BEHOLD, my fair, whese'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 ;
I feel thy power usurp my breast.
Resign the heart to spleen and care ;
And rapture saddens to despair.
Unhappy man! behold thy doom :
The slave of sunshine and of gloom,
With mental and coporeal strife,
And screen me from the ills of life.*
ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOUR A GOLD AND SILK
NET-WORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING.*
Though gold and silk their charms unite
Spread out by me, the roving coin
• Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
To Miss *****
ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD IN A. ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF HER
When Stella strikes the tuneful string
When charms thus press on ev'ry sense,
But on those regions of delight
Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes
* Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.