IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN. SWIFTLY bounds the mettled courser; Swift the flying moments move; Haste, my beauteous maid, Iöle,

Give the fleeting hour to love! Soon is nipp'd the bud of beauty; Quickly fades the flower of youth; Seize in time, the blest occasion,

To reward thy shepherd's truth. Cynthia, glittering in yon river,

Meekly sheds her paly ray; Soon Aurora's mantling blushes, Usher in the new born day;

Winter strips the leafy forest;

Frost and snow deform the year; Soon returns the vernal season;

Soon the infant buds appear.

We but flourish for one summer;

That elaps'd, no more can boast; Death entombs our hopes in darkness,

When the light of life is lost. Ghosts in dreary realms of Pluto, Ne'er the kind affections move; They, immers'd in cold oblivion,

Lend no more the thought to love. Since allow'd to taste of pleasure, Blameless bliss without alloy; While lole's young and blooming, Give the laughing hours to joy. We'll despise each idle rumour,

Of the age, to Love severe, When the tresses silver'd over,

Speak the grisly phantom near. Swiftly bounds the mettled courser;

Swift the flying moments move; Haste, my beauteous maid, löle, Give the fleeting hour to Love!

SONNET.

THE midnight storm is high, and sadness brings
To many a musing melancholy mind:
It seems the tempest on his dreary wings
Bears tribulation; and the hollow wind
Is filled with boding voices; but to those
Whom blithe content surrounds, who deem
it not

A sin to feel delight, the blast that blows

Is quickly perish'd, and its breath forgot: Bright let the tapers beam: the ruddy fire With heightened resiness exalt the glow Of woman's blooming cheek; and wine inspire The open heart's exhilarating flow! Who that is wise, would yield the passing bour

To bitterness, when bliss is in his power?

PHOEBE'S ABSENCE.

My pastures with beauty are clad,
Yet s lent the birds on the spray,
My flock all appear to be sad,
My lambkins no longer can play.

Each shepherd and shepherdess mourns,
Yes, sadness in Arcady reigns
Until lovely Phoebe returns
To give again joy to our plains.
My pipe now is dry with disuse,
Not music can lessen my pain,
If Phoebe no spirit infuse,
I handle it, ah! but in vain.
Repining thro' meadows I stray,
To count o'er my languishing sheep,
How tedious-how lonesome the way!
With her I could trace every step.
Yet why, alas! do I complain!
My Phoebe I know is sincere;
Few moons may restore her again
When joy all around will appear!