No more tire morn, with tepid rays, Unfolds the flow'r of various hue; Noon spreads no more the genial blaze, Nor gentle eve distils the dew. The ling'ring hours prolong the night, Usurping darkness shares the day; Her mists restrain the force of light, And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway. By gloomy twilight, half reveal'd, With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field, The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill. No musick warbles through the grove, No vivid colours paint the plain; No more, with devious steps, I rove Through verdant paths, now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars, Congeal'd, impetuous show'rs descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend. In nature's aid, let art supply With light and heat my little sphere; Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high, Light up a constellation here. Let musick sound 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 shall please no more Nor musick charm--though Stella sings; Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour, Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a short summer--man a flow'r: He dies--alas! how soon he dies!
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