On WINTER. Mary Leapor Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T127827 p. 413 K101776.000 Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746. Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley in Northamptonshire. London printed: and sold by J. Roberts 1748 pp. 256-258. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰.

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On WINTER . WHAT Pictures now shall wanton Fancy bring ? Or how the Muse to Artemisia sing ? Now shiv'ring Nature mourns her ravish'd Charms , And sinks supine in Winter's frozen Arms . No gaudy Banks delight the ravish'd Eye , But northern Breezes whistle thro' the Sky . No joyful Choirs hail the rising Day , But the froze Crystal wraps the leafless Spray : Brown look the Meadows , that were late so fine , And cap'd with Ice the distant Mountains shine ; The silent Linnet views the gloomy Sky , Sculks to his Hawthorn , nor attempts to fly : Then heavy Clouds send down the feather'd Snow ; Through naked Trees the hollow Tempests blow ; The Shepherd sighs , but not his Sighs prevail ; To the soft Snow succeeds the rushing Hail ; And these white Prospects soon resign their room To melting Showers or unpleasing Gloom ; The Nymphs and Swains their aking Fingers blow , Shun the cold Rains and bless the kinder Snow ; While the faint Travellers around them see , Here Seas of Mud and there a leafless Tree : No budding Leaves nor Honeysuckles gay , No yellow Crow-foots paint the dirty Way ; The Lark sits mournful as afraid to rise , And the sad Finch his softer Song denies . Poor daggled Urs'la stalks from Cow to Cow , Who to her Sighs return a mournful Low ; While their full Udders her broad Hands assail , And her sharp Nose hangs dropping o'er the Pail . With Garments trickling like a shallow Spring , And his wet Locks all twisted in a String , Afflicted Cymon waddles through the Mire , And rails at Win'fred creeping o'er the Fire . Say gentle Muses , say , is this a Time To sport with Poesy and laugh in Rhyme ; While the chill'd Blood , that hath forgot to glide , Steals through its Channels in a lazy Tide : And how can Phoebus , who the Muse refines , Smooth the dull Numbers when he seldom shines .