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IN a drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
   Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
   From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
   Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
   About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
   A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
   Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
   Was never said in rhyme.

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WHEN fragrant gales and summer show'rs
Call'd forth the sweetly scented flow'rs;
When ripen'd sheaves of golden grain,
Strew'd their rich treasures o'er the plain;
When the full grape did nectar yield,
In tepid drops of purple hue;
When the thick grove, and thirsty field,
Drank the soft show'r and bloom'd a-new;
O then my joyful heart did say,
"Sure this is Nature's Holy-day!"

But when the yellow leaf did fade,
And every gentle flow'r decay'd;
When whistling winds, and drenching rain,
Swept with rude force the naked plain;
When o'er the desolated scene,
I saw the drifted snow descend;
And sadness darken'd all the green,
And Nature's triumphs seem'd to end;
O! then, my mourning heart did say,
"Thus Youth shall vanish, Life decay."

When Beauty blooms, and Fortune smiles,
And wealth the easy breast beguiles;
When pleasure from her downy wings,
Her soft bewitching incense flings;
THEN, Friends look kind­and round the heart
The brightest flames of passion move,
False Flatt'ry's soothing strains impart
The warmest Friendship­fondest Love;
But when capricious FORTUNE flies,
Then FRIENDSHIP fades;­and PASSION dies.

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WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
  Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
  And get knocked on the head for his labours.

To do good to Mankind is the chivalrous plan,
  And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for Freedom wherever you can,
  And, if not shot or hanged, you'll get knighted.

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    Could Love for ever
    Run like a river,
    And Time's endeavour
      Be tried in vain--
    No other pleasure
    With this could measure;
    And like a treasure
      We'd hug the chain.
    But since our sighing
    Ends not in dying,
    And, formed for flying,
      Love plumes his wing;
    Then for this reason
    Let's love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.

    When lovers parted
    Feel broken-hearted,
    And, all hopes thwarted,
      Expect to die;
    A few years older,
    Ah! how much colder
    They might behold her
      For whom they sigh!
    When linked together,
    In every weather,
    They pluck Love's feather
      From out his wing--
    He'll stay for ever,
    But sadly shiver
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

    Like Chiefs of Faction,
    His life is action--
    A formal paction
      That curbs his reign,
    Obscures his glory,
    Despot no more, he
    Such territory
      Quits with disdain.
    Still, still advancing,
    With banners glancing,
    His power enhancing,
      He must move on--
    Repose but cloys him,
    Retreat destroys him,
Love brooks not a degraded throne.

    Wait not, fond lover!
    Till years are over,
    And then recover
      As from a dream.
    While each bewailing
    The other's failing.
    With wrath and railing,
      All hideous seem--
    While first decreasing,
    Yet not quite ceasing,
    Wait not till teasing,
      All passion blight:
    If once diminished
    Love's reign is finished--
Then part in friendship,--and bid good-night.

    So shall Affection
    To recollection
    The dear connection
      Bring back with joy:
    You had not waited
    Till, tired or hated,
    Your passions sated
      Began to cloy.
    Your last embraces
    Leave no cold traces--
    The same fond faces
      As through the past:
    And eyes, the mirrors
    Of your sweet errors,
Reflect but rapture--not least though last.

    True, separations
    Ask more than patience;
    What desperations
      From such have risen!
    But yet remaining,
    What is't but chaining
    Hearts which, once waning,
      Beat 'gainst their prison?
    Time can but cloy love,
    And use destroy love:
    The wingéd boy, Love,
      Is but for boys--
    You'll find it torture
    Though sharper, shorter,
To wean, and not wear out your joys.