Written at Rossana
Novr 18. 1799 
Oh my rash hand, what hast thou idly done?
Torn from its humble bank the last poor flower
That patient linger'd to this wintry hour:
Expanding cheerly to the languid Sun
It flourish'd yet, and yet it might have blown, 5
Had not thy sudden desolating power
Destroy'd what many a storm, and angry shower
Had pitying spar'd. The pride of Summer gone
Cherish what yet in faded life can bloom,
And, if Domestic Love still sweetly smiles,10
If shelter'd by thy Cot he yet beguiles
Thy Winter's prospect of its dreary gloom,
Oh from the Spoiler's touch thy treasure screen
To bask beneath Contentment's beam serene!