The verdant leaves that play'd on high,

And wanton'd in the western breeze, Now trod in dust neglected lie,

As Boreas strips the bending trees.

The fields that wav'd with golden grain,

As russet heaths are wild and bare ; Not moist with dew, but drench'd in rain,

Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there.

No more, while through the midnight sbade,

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;

O! 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 reigo; Compels to breathe polluted air,

And shiver on a blasted plain.

What bliss to life can Autumn yield,

If gloom, and show'rs, and storms prevail, And Ceres flies the naked field,

And flow'rs, and fruits, and Phæbus fail?

Ob! what remains, what lingers yet,

To cheer me in the dark’ning hour IThe grape remains ! the friend of wit,

In love and mirth of mighty power,

Haste, press the cluster, 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 every bliss in wine shall meet.

WINTER, AN ODE. No more the morn with tepid rays,

Unfolds the flow'rs 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 rereald,

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 roye

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 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 flow'r,

He dies ! alas !--how soon he dies !

SOLITUDE,

An Allegorical Ode.
From empty mirth and fruitless strife,
The tumult and the pride of life,
The craft of trade, the farce of state,
From all the busy, all the great,-
Bear me, ye sylvans ! quickly bear
To peaceful scenes, and purer air :
Come! kindly lead my weary feet
To sacred Solitude's retreat :-
O! through her silent groves to stráy,
And wind the sweetly devious way,

Where nature all her charms resumes,
And Eden still upfaded blooms!

While thus I pray'd, a sylvan came,
With placid looks, and generous aim :-
“ How rare," said he, or seem'd to say,
“ Do mortals know for what they pray!
Hast thou attain'd a strength of mind,
That scorns the aid of human kind?
And will thy deeds of virtue past
Regale thy memory to the last?
Can warm imagination play,
In rural scenes from day to day?
Will meditation, strong to bless,
Protect thee still from idleness?
Canst thou from life's distracting views
More swiftly fly than care pursues ?
With tearless eye look backward o'er
That youth which shall return no more !
Without a sigh look forward too,
And
age

and death contented view ?" He paus'd-nor time for thought deny'd ;Awhile I mus'd, and thus reply'd.

« That youth once past shall ne'er return I know-to live l wish to learn ; On time's swift wings to death I fly, And therefore wish to learn to die; I know that o'er a mortal's head With all his hours some faults have fled;But yet my pray'r I still repeat, O! lead to Solitude's retreat!" “To Solitude's retreat," he said, “This hour thy wishful feet are led."

Graceful he turn'd, confess'd a God,
And joyful in his steps I trod;
Behind us sinks the glitt'ring spire,
And lofty domes in clouds retire;
Before us near and nearer still,
More lofty grows the approaching hill;
With painful patient steps, and slow,
We gain the height, and look below.

“ Behold,” said he, “ the varied scene;
Here level lawns of lively green;
There blooming groves, where myrtles twine
Their amorous arms around the vine;
Where woodbines knit with roses blow,
And calm translucent waters flow;
Here Beauty, lovely child of Day!
Descends in light's refulgent ray,
Around her spreads a thousand dies,
And paints the flow'rs that earth supplies;
Here music blends the varied strain,
And fragrance breathes along the plain;
A cloudless sky appears above,
And all is peace and all is love!

“ Now to the left the prospect view, What mournful groves of baleful yew! No rising flow'rs the ground adorn, Without the rose behold the thorn ! There staguant lakes are green alone, And only birds of night are known; Thick noisome fogs pollute the sky, Hoarse thunders roar, and lightnings fly; Through the dread walks the furies rove, And horror hovers o'er the grove,