From this capricious clime fhe foars,
O! would fome God but wings fupply!
To where each morn the spring reftores,
Companion of her flight, I'd fly.

Vain wish! me fate compells to bear
The downward season's iron reign,

Compells to breathe polluted air,
And shiver on a blasted plain.

What blifs to life can autumn yield,

If glooms, and fhowers, and ftorms prevail, And Ceres flies the naked field,

And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus 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.

Hafte, prefs the clufters, fill the bowl
Apollo! fhoot thy parting ray;
This gives the funshine of the foul,

This God of health, and verfe, and day.

Still, ftill the jocund strain shall flow,
The pulfe with vigorous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms fhall glow,

And every blifs in wine fhall meet.

P

AUTUM

BY MR. BREREWOOD.

N.

THO

Ho' the feasons must alter, ah! yet let me find
What all muft confefs to be rare,

A female still cheerful, and faithful and kind,
The bleffings of autumn to share.

Let one fide of our cottage, a flourishing vine Overspread with its branches, and shade; Whose clusters appear more transparent and fine, As its leaves are beginning to fade.

When the fruit makes the branches bend down with In our orchard furrounded with pales; [its load, In a bed of clean straw let our apples be ftow'd, For a tart that in winter regales.

When the vapours that rife from the earth in the morn
Seem to hang on its surface like smoke,
'Till difpers'd by the fun that gilds over the corn,
Within doors let us prattle and joke.

But when we fee clear all the hues of the leaves, And at work in the fields are all hands,

Some in reaping the wheat, others binding the heaves, Let us carelefly ftrole o'er the lands.

How pleafing the fight of the toiling they make, To collect what kind Nature has fent!

Heaven grant we may not of their labour partake; But, oh! give us their happy content.

And fometimes on a bank, under fhade, by a brook, Let us filently fit at our ease,

And there

gaze on the ftream, till the fish on the hook Struggles hard to procure its release.

And now when the husbandman fings harveft home,
And the corn's all got into the house ;
When the long wifh'd for time of their meeting is
To frolic, and feaft, and carouse; [come,

When the leaves from the trees are begun to be shed,

And are leaving the branches all bare,

Either ftrew'd at the roots, fhrivell'd, wither'd, and Or else blown to and fro in the air;

[dead,

[feem,

When the ways are fo miry, that bogs they might
And the axle-tree's ready to break,
While the waggoner whistles in stopping his team,
And then claps the poor jades on the neck;

In the morning let's follow the cry of the hounds, Or the fearful young covey befet;

Which, tho' fkulking in ftubble and weeds on the Are becoming a prey to the net. [grounds,

Let's enjoy all the pleasure retirement affords,
Still amus'd with thefe innocent sports,
Nor once envy the pomp of fine ladies and lords,
With their grand entertainments in courts.

In the evening when lovers are leaning on stiles, Deep engag'd in some amorous chát,,

And 'tis very well known by his grin, and her smiles, What they both have a mind to be at ;

Toour dwelling, tho' homely, well-pleas'd to repair,
Let our mutual endearments revive,.

And let no fingle action, or look, but declare,
How contented and happy we live.

Should ideas arise that may ruffle the foul,
Let foft mufic the phantoms remove,
For 'tis harmony only has force to controul,
And unite all the paffions in love.

With her eyes but half open, her cap all awry, When the lafs is preparing for bed;

And the fleepy dull clown, who fits nodding juft by, Sometimes rouzes and scratches his head.

In the night when 'tis cloudy, and rainy, and dark,
And the labourers fnore as they lie,

Not a noise to disturb us, unless a dog bark
In the farm, or the village hard by.

At the time of sweet reft, and of quiet like this, Ere our eyes are clos'd up in their lids,

Let us welcome the season, and taste of that blifs, Which the sunshine and daylight forbids.

UPON MY HAIRS FALLING.

NEW and eafy in your stay,

Never curl'd, and hardly grey;

Hairs, adieu! tho' falling all,
Blameless, harmlefs, may you fall.

Light and trifling tho' you be,

More deferving poetry

Than the dream of guilty power,
Than the mifer's gather'd ore,
Than the world's most serious things,
Murdering victors, haughty kings,
If your moral fall prefage

Death, the certain end of age,

If a fingle hint you give,
Well to die, and foon to live.

AN