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! Yet time life's dreary winter brings, Nor music charm-though Stella sings; Catch then, O! catch the transient hour, 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, By gloomy twilight half reveal'd, No music warbles through the grove, 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! Yet time life's dreary winter brings, Catch then, O! catch the transient hour, 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 The lingering hours prolong the night, By gloomy twilight half reveal'd, No music warbles through the grove, 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! Yet time life's dreary winter brings, Catch then, O! catch the transient hour, He dies-alas! how soon he dies! |