POETRr. 



WINTER, AN ODE. 

 To the Editor of the Bee. 



Fled is the chearfal verdant spring, 

 And all the sweets of summer's dawn| 



No more we hear the iky-laiks sing, 

 Or reaper wliistling o'er the lawn. 



Th' enliv'ning sun withdraws his beams. 

 And sable clouds his face o'erlhade; 



Faint are his few meriuiai! gleams, 

 Which o'er the gelid waste arc spread 



Now Flora's children drop asleep. 

 Or sink beneath the stormy blast^ 



Dejected nature seems to weep, 



And mourn the year's best beauties past 



Where late within the mazy grove, 



I pjnder'd o'er the lyric page; 

 Or to sweet Caelia sigh'd my love. 



Bleak, winter storms with wasteful rage. 



The northern light, with (heeted glare. 



Displays a melancholy scene; 

 The frozen waste, the woodland bare. 



The meadow brown, which erst was greeu. 



■Chill Boreas foaming from the north. 

 His frosty breath begins to blow ; 



Then fly his fleecy legions forth. 

 And robe our fields in virgin snow. 



The furious tempest louder wakes. 



Thick drives the snow like mountains highj^ 

 Beneath its force the cottage (hakes, 



And devastation meets tlie eye. 



Since gloomy nature seems to frown. 

 And will no smiling aspect wear, 



Cet love our gcn'rous wiHies crown. 

 And friendlhip warm the circling year. 



Why IhouW we with the winter mourn, ] 



Or vainly pine at future woe ? 

 Haste! heap the fire, and m\ke it burn, 



Htrc dwell, no frost or drifi';d snuw 



roL. vii. o \ 



