Ode, Unfinished

Lo, boist'rous Winter, dull and drear, Increasing desolation far, Comes on apace, CRUM's shady groves, The Summer haunts of smiling loves, Stand wither'd o'er, and bleak its woods, And frozen are its azure floods.

High pile the turf a glad'ning sire, And Bacchus shall our joys inspire, The rosy God, with gen'rous wine, Shall us to sportive mirth incline: And to the providence of Heaven, Let all our worldly cares be given.