Dost ask how long my vows shall stay,

When all that's new is past?

How long? my DELIA ! can I say

How long my life will last?

Dried be that tear, be hush'd that sigh, At least I'll love thee till I die.

And does that thought affect thee too, The thought of Sylvio's death; That he, who only breathes for you, Must yield that faithful breath ? Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, Nor let us lose our heaven while here!

WILLIAM RICHARDSON.

1774.

This gentleman, M. A. and F. R. S. of Edinburgh, and Professor of Humanity in the university of Glasgow, distinguished himself as an Essayist on Shakspeare, so early as 1775. His Poems were published in 1774, and, after passing through successive editions, have lately, together with his plays, been collected into two handsome volumes. As a poet, Mr. Richardson is to be admired for the unaffectedness of his sentiments, the correctness of his imagery, the smoothness of his versification, and the purity and elegance of his language.

THE INVITATION.

FAIR Lady, leave parade and show,
O leave thy courtly guise a while:
For thee the vernal breezes blow,
And groves, and flowery valleys smile:
For no conceited selfish pride
Corrupts thy taste for rural joy:
Nor can thy gentle heart abide
The taunting lip, or scornful eye.

Nor scorn, nor envy harbour here,
Nor discord, nor profane desires:
No flattery shall offend thine ear,
For love our faithful song inspires.

When smiling morn ariseth gay,
Gilding the dew-drops on the lawn,
Our flocks on flowery uplands stray,
Our songs salute the rosy dawn.

When noon-tide scorcheth all the hills,
And all the flowers and herbage fade,
We seek the cool refreshing rills

That warble through the green-wood glade.

But when the lucid star of eve
Shines in the western sky serene,
The swains and shepherdesses weave
Fantastic measures on the green.

O Lady! change thy splendid state,
With us a shepherdess abide;
Contentment dwells not with the great,
But flies from avarice and pride.

The groves invite thee; and our vale,
Where every fragrant bud that blows,
And every stream, and every gale
Will yield thee pastime and repose.

JOHN MOORE.

1778.

Poetry sustained a loss, in a gentleman of such distinguished and promising talents. Sir John Moore died Jan. 16, 1780, aged 24 years. His private virtues had endeared him to all his acquaintance.

CEASE to blame my melancholy,
Though, with sighs and folded arms,
I muse in silence on her charms;
Censure not-I know 'tis folly.

Yet, these mournful thoughts possessing,
Such delight I find in grief,

That, could Heaven afford relief,
My fond heart would scorn the blessing.

ΤΟ

If in that breast, so good, so pure,
Compassion ever lov'd to dwell,

Pity the sorrows I endure,

The cause-I must not-dare not tell.

The grief that on my quiet preys,

That rends my heart, that checks my tongue,

I fear will last me all my days,

But feel it will not last me long!

JOSEPH HOLDEN POTT.

1779.

This author, son of Percival Pott, a name celebrated in the annals of surgery, was entered at St. John's College, Cambridge, which he had not quitted in the year 1780. He was afterwards promoted to the Prebendary of Lincoln, and became Archdeacon of St. Alban's.

ODE TO THE WIND.

SWEET silent Breeze of Noon! to thee
The proudest bosom still is free:
With softest murmur greet the Maid
To whose cold heart my vows are paid,
Full oft to thee, sweet soothing guest!
She loosens all her snowy breast:
And, oh! no gently-swelling sail
That opens to thy passing gale,
E'er heav'd so lovely to the sight,
As heaves that breast of soft delight;
Than winter's snow more white.

Each charm, which you alone may see,
Returning, tell to none but me.

Search all that courts, or shuns the eye,
And mingle with her parting sigh;

Thy breath, thence fraught with balmy power,
On every weed shall leave a flower;

Yet none like that fair rose shall be,

Which dyes her cheek when kiss'd by thee!
The morning's blush, or evening's glow,
The blooming spring, or watry bow,

No tints so fair can show.