ODE, to a LADY in LONDON.

By Miss C***

WHILE soft through water earth, and air
The vernal spirits rove,
From noise, my dear, and giddy crowds
To rural scenes remove.
The mountain snows are all dissolv'd,
And hush'd the blust'ring gale,
While fragrant Zephyrs gently breathe
Along the flowery vale.
The circling planets' constant rounds
The wintry wastes repair,
And still from temporary death
Renew the verdant year.
But ah! when once our transient bloom,
The spring of life, is o'er,
That rosy season takes its flight,
And must return no more.
Yet judge by Reason's sober rules,
From false Opinion free,
And mark how little pilfering years
Can steal from you or me.
Each moral pleasure of the heart,
Each smiling charm of truth,
Depends not on the giddy bud
Of wild fantastic youth.
The vain coquet, whose empty pride
A fading face supplies,
May justly dread the wintry gloom
Where all its glory dies.
Leave such a ruin to deplore
To fleeting forms confin'd;
Nor age, nor wrinkles, discompose
One feature of the mind.
Amidst the universal change,
Unconscious of decay,
It views unmov'd the scythe of Time
Sweep all besides away.
Fix'd on its own eternal frame
Eternal are its joys,
While borne on transitory wings
Each mortal pleasure flies.
While every short-liv'd flower of sense
Destructive years consume,
Through friendship's fair enchanting walks
Unfading myrtles bloom.
Nor with the narrow bounds of time
Its beauteous prospect ends,
But lengthen'd through the vale of death
To paradise extends.