ON THE

COLD MONTH OF APRIL, 1771.

Oh! who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ;
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast;

Or wallow naked in December's snow
By thinking on fantastic Summer's heat ?-

SHAKESP. RICHARD II.

POETS in vain have hail'd the op'ning spring, In tender accents woo'd the blooming maid,

In vain have taught the April birds to wing Their flight thro' fields in verdant hue array'd.

The muse in ev'ry season taught to sing

Amidst the desert snows by fancy's powers; Can elevated soar, on placid wing,

To climes where spring her kindest influence

showers.

ON THE COLD MONTH OF APRIL, 1771.

April, once famous for the zephyr mild,

For sweets that early in the garden grow,. Say, how converted to this cheerless wild,

Rushing with torrents of dissolving snow.

Nurs'd by the moisture of a gentle shower, Thy foliage oft hath sounded to the breeze; Oft did thy choristers melodious pour

Their melting numbers thro' the shady trees.

Fair have I seen thy morn, in smiles array'd, With crimson blush bepaint the eastern sky; But now the dawn creeps, mournful o'er the glade, Shrouded in colours of a sable dye.

So have I seen the fair, with laughing eye,

And-visage cheerful as the smiling morn, Alternate changing for the heaving sigh,

Or frowning aspect of contemptuous scorn.

ON THE COLD MONTH OF APRIL, 1771.

Life! what art thou?—a variegated scene
Of mingled light and shade, of joy and woe;
A sea where calms and storms promiscuous reign;
A stream where sweet and bitter jointly flow.

Mute are the plains; the shepherd pipes no more;,
The reed's forsaken, and the tender flock;
While Echo, list'ning to the tempest's roar,
In silence wanders o'er the beetling rock.

Winter, too potent for the solar ray,

Bestrides the blast, ascends his icy throne, And views Britannia, subject to his sway, Floating emergent on the frigid zone.

Thou savage tyrant of the fretful sky!
Wilt thou for ever in our zenith reign ?
To Greenland's seas, congeal'd in chilness, fly,

Where howling monster's tread the bleak domain..

ལ་་་་་་་་་་་་་་

ON THE COLD MONTH OF APRIL, 1771.

Relent, O Boreas! leave,thy frozen cell;
Resign to Spring her portion of the year;

Let west winds temp'rate wave the flowing gale, And hills, and vales, and woods, a vernal aspect wear.

THE SIMILE.

AT noontide, as Colin and Sylvia lay
Within a cool jessamine bower,

A butterfly, wak'd by the heat of the day,
Was sipping the juice of each flow'r.

Near the shade of this covert a young shepherd boy

The gaudy brisk flutterer spies,

Who held it as pastime to seek and destroy

Each beautiful-insect that flies.

From the lily he hunted this fly to the rose;
From the rose to the lily again;

Till, weary with tracing its motions, he chose

To leave the pursuit with disdain.

Then Colin to Sylvia smilingly said,

Amyntor has follow'd you long;

From him, like the butterfly, still have you fle,

Tho' woo'd by his musical tongue.