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Poems

By George Dyer
Dyer, George (1755-1841)
  
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POEMS.
 II. 
ODE II. TO MELANCHOLY.
 III. 
ODE III. WRITTEN IN THE CLOISTERS OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL, IN LONDON.
 V. 
ODE V. ON THE EVENING.
  
THE MADMAN.
 VI. 
ODE VI. WRITTEN IN BEDLAM:
 VII. 
ODE VII. TO ANTHONY DEANE, OF BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE;
 VII. 
ODE VII. GAIA,
 VIII. 
ODE VIII. A TRIUMPHANT ODE OF THE ISRAELITES,
 IX. 
ODE IX. BALAAM'S PROPHECY.
 XI. 
ODE XI. ON GENIUS.
 XII. 
ODE XII. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
 XIV. 
ODE XIV. RAYMOND AND ANGELINA.
 XV. 
ODE XV. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF MILTON'S PARADISE LOST,
 XVI. 
ODE XVI. ADDRESSED TO DR. ROBERT ANDERSON, OF HERIOT'S-GREEN, EDINBURGH,
 XVII. 
ODE XVII. ASTERIA ROCKING THE CRADLE,
 XVIII. 
ODE XVIII. WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF JOHN HOWARD ,
 XIX. 
ODE XIX. TO A YOUNG PAINTER AND POETESS.
  
ON A LADY,
  
ODE TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.
 XX. 
ODE XX. ON AN APPROACHING SPRING
 XXIV. 
ODE XXIV. WINTER DEFEATED.
 XXV. 
ODE XXV. A GLEE.
 XXVI. 
ODE XXVI. THE RESLOVE.
  
ON TAKING LEAVE OF ARTHUR AIKIN,
 XXVII. 
ODE XXVII.
 XXVIII. 
ODE XXVIII. THE MUSICIANS;
  
ADDRESSED TO THE SOCIETY FOR ESTABLISHING A LITERARY FUND FOR AUTHORS IN DISTRESS,
 XXIX. 
ODE XXIX. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY COLONEL LOVELACE,
 XXXIII. 
ODE XXXIII. TO DR. SAMUEL PARR , OF HADDON NEAR WARWICK.
 XXXVII. 
ODE XXXVII. TO PITY.
 XXXVIII. 
ODE XXXVIII. THE FAIR SCEPTIC;
 XXXIX. 
ODE XXXIX. AFTER VISITING DRYBURGH ABBEY, IN BERWICKSHIRE,
 XL. 
ODE XL. HYMN TO CHARITY .
  
TO A LADY,
  
THE POET'S FATE.
  
THE BALANCE.
  
POETIC SYMPATHIES.
  
THE REDRESS.

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124

ODE XXIV. WINTER DEFEATED.

[_]

FROM BURGER.

I

See! where stern winter's icy hand
Unrobes the poplar tree;
The fields, their Mayclothes lost, all naked stand;
Their hues of red, white, blue, no more I see;
Buried in snows they sleep, and live no more to me.

II

Yet flow'rets sweet, can I for you
The death-song sad indite,
When I my lovely loving charmer view,
In more than all your vernal beauties bright,
With forehead white, red lip, and eyes of azure light?

III

Ye blackbirds, whistling thro' the vale,
Ye nightingales, that charm the grove,
In vain your melting strains my ear assail,
For silver-voic'd is she, the girl I love,
And sweet her breath as gales, o'er hyacinth-beds that rove.
125

IV

When of her lips I taste the bliss,
Full happiness I seem to meet:
More rich to me the honey-breathing kiss
Than mulberry fragrant, or than cherry sweet;
What more, Love, can I wish? In thee, fair Spring I greet.
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