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With brifker air the filken courtiers gaze,
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.
Of all the griefs that harrafs the diftrefs'd,
Sure the most bitter is a fcornful jest;

Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,
Than when a blockhead's infult points the dart.

DR. JOHNSON

A

SE C T. XXXVII.

ON AUTUMN.

LAS! with fwift and filent pace,

Impatient time rolls on the year;

The feafons change, and nature's face
Now fweetly fmiles, now frowns fevere.

'Twas spring, 'twas fummer, all was gay,
Now autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flowers of fpring are swept away,
And fummer fruits defert the bough.

The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze,
Now trod in duft neglected lie,

As Boreas ftrips the bending trees.

The fields that wav'd with golden grain,
As ruffet heaths are wild and bare ;
Not moift with dew, but drench'd in rain,

Nor health nor pleasure wanders there.

No

No more while thro' the midnight shade
Beneath the moon's pale orb I ftray,
Soft pleafing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.

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

Vain wish! me fate compels to bear
The downward seasons iron reign,
Compels 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 Phœbus 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 clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo! fhoot thy parting ray :
This gives the funshine of the soul,
This God of health, and verfe, and day.

Still-ftill the jocund ftrain fball flow,

The pulfe with vigorous rapture beat;

My

My Stella with new charms fhall glow,
And every blifs in wine fhall meet.

DR. JOHNSON.

S E C T. `XXXVIII.

ON WINTER.

O more the morn with tepid rays

Νο

Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon fpreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.

The lingering hours prolong the night,
Ufurping darknefs fhares the day;
Her mifts reftrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half reveal'd,
With fighs we view the hoary hill,
The leaflefs wood, the naked field,
The fnow-top'd cot, the frozen rill.

No mufic warbles thro' the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain;

No more with devious steps I rove
Thro' verdant paths now fought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempeft roars,

Congeal'd impetuous fhowers defcend; Hafte, close the window, bar the doors,

Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In nature's aid let art fupply

With light and heat my little sphere;
Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high,
Light up a constellation here.

Let mufic found 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 fhall please no more;

Nor mufic charm tho' Stella fings;

Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore.

Catch then, O! catch the transient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies;

Life's a fhort fummer-man a flower,
He dies-alas! how foon he dies!

DR. JOHNSON

SECT.

XXXIX.

THE WINTER'S WALK.

BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove

What dreary prospects round us rise;

The naked hill, the leaflefs grove,
The hoary ground, the frowning fkies!

Nor only through the wafted plain,
Stern winter! is thy force confefs'd;

Still

Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power ufurp my breaft.

Enlivening hope, and fond defire,

Refign the heart to fpleen and care; Scarce frighted love maintains her fire, And rapture faddens to despair.

In groundlefs hope, and causeless fear,
Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
Still changing with the changeful year,
The flave of funshine and of gloom.

Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,
With mental and corporeal ftrife,
Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
And screen me from the ills of life.

DR. JOHNSON.

SECT.

XL.

THE VANITY OF WEALTH.

No more, thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With avarice painful vigils keep;

Still unenjoy'd the prefent ftore,

Still endless fighs are breath'd for more.
O! quit the fhadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase heaven has gold the power?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?

In

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