January. an Ode

On yon black cloud, behold Aquarius stand, Poising an ample urn in either hand! The load he sways, then swiftly pours In cataracts the deluge down; The rough wind howls discordant with the showers, Whilst nature knits each feature to a frown.

The dripping poultry seek the closest sheds: The pensive warblers droop their little heads: Nor without cause. No gilding ray Breaks thro' the foggy veil of air; But all is picturesque of blank dismay, Engendering spirits of extreme despair.

Is this th' unpleasing foretaste of the year? And does the first month meet me with a tear? And shall not better days ensue, The soul to cherish and sustain? Shall no bright prospects lengthen to the view, No river smile, no landscape charm again?

Lo! fly the clouds; the sun renews his ray; Aquarius adds a lustre to the day: To globes of ice each freezing urn Transforms: The crown, which late he wore Surcharg'd with wet, condenses in its turn, And looks a substance of self-polish'd ore.

Now round the board, my friends! in concert join, And drown despair in copious floods of wine. Vulcan! sit down and blow the fire; And Bacchus, thou! my butler be: Approach, my Genius! fill the goblet higher, I'll have no other Ganymede but thee.