POETRY. 41
And certain deeds each rank calls forch.
By which is meafLir'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell.
In realms where antient honefty
Is patrimonial property.
And lacred Freedom loves to dwell.
May give up all his peaceful mind.
Guided by Plato's deathlefs page.
In filent folitude refign'd
To the mild virtues of a fage :
But I, 'gainit whom wiW whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Muft be, to face the cempell's rage.
In thought, in life, and death a King.
Winter, a Poem, being a Tranjlation of Mr. "William Thomson's Ode Brumalis,
By the Reverend Mr, Tatters a l, late FelJciv of Trinity College ^ Cambridge.
ALAS! no longer now appear The fofter feafons of the year. Of fports and loves what Mufe now fings r Away my lyre ; — boy, break the ftrings.
Old joylefs Winter, who difdains Your fprighcly, flow'ry, Attic ftrains. Wrapt into fable, calls for airs. Rough, gloomy, as the rug he wears.
Pleafure, for ever on the wing. Wild, wanton, reftlefs, flutt'ring thing. Airy fprings by with fudden fpeed. Swifter than Maro's flying Heed.
Ah 1 Where is hid the fylvan fcene. The leafy fhade, the vernal green ? In Flora's meads the fweets that grew. Colours which Nature's pencil drew, Chaplets, the bufl of Pope might wear. Worthy to bloom around lanthe's hair ?
Gay-mantled Spring away is flown. The filver treffed Summer's gone. And golden Autumn ; naught remains But Winter with his iron chains.
The feather-footed hours that fly. Say, " Human life thus pafles by.'*
What
