P OE’ DRRAY: 
’Tis she alone shall glad my sight, 
Whose absence leaves me no delight. 
Laura Winter’s gloom can. charm, 
And his piercing blast disarm ; 
Hence, stern parent of the year, 
I love thy solemn season drear ; 
If thy snows deform the earth, 
Thou, Winter, gav’st my Laura birth, 
TO FANCY, 
AN ODE, BY THE SAME. 
Ra Fancy! lend thy lyre, 
Touch me with thy hallow’d fire, 
Aptly to strike the deep-ton’d shell,. 
And bid its trembling echos swell, 
Resounding far, in living lays, 
Thee, goddess, and thy wand’ring ways. 
Untaught by thee, what Poet wooes, 
Or wooes to win the wayward Muse ? 
By thee unaided in his flight, 
How dares attempt Parnassus’ height ? 
But should the child of rapture view, 
Thee rob’din light of varying hue ; 
Led by the flight, his course he wings, 
To gain the verse inspiring springs, 
Of Hippocrene or Arethuse, 
Below'd and welcom’d by the Muse ; 
Nor ever thither dares to stray, 
When thou disdain’st to mark the way. 
Twas when the steed th’ Aonian mount 
First struck. and op’d the sacred fount, 
Whence Hippocrene’s clear waters ran, 
Thy sway o’er mortals first began ; 
As issuing from th’ enchanted stream, 
Thy magic influence ’gan to beam. 
Rapt the tuneful nine admire, 
How thy voice improves the lyre ; 
Fairer flowers adorn the ground ; 
Sweeter notes re-echo round ; 
The streams in softer murmurs run 3 
Their waves reflect a brighter sun. 
Fear 
