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Like a declining statefman, left forlorn
To his friends pity, and pursuers scorn;
With shame remembers, while himself was one
Of the fame herd, himself the fame had done.
Thence to the coverts, and the confcious groves,
The scenes of his past triumphs, and his loves;
Sadly surveying where he rang'd alone
Prince of the foil, and all the herd his own;
And like a bold knight-errant did proclaim
Combat to all, and bore away the dame;
And taught the woods to echo to the stream
His dreadful challenge, and his clashing beam.
Yet faintly now declines the fatal strife;
So much his love was dearer than his life.
Now ev'ry leaf, and ev'ry moving breath,
Presents a foe, and ev'ry foe a death.
Weary'd, forsaken, and pursu'd, at last,
All safety in despair of safety plac'd,"
Courage he thence resumes, resolv'd to bear
All their afsaults, since 'tis in vain to fear.
And now too late he wishes, for the fight,
That strength he wasted in ignoble flight :
But when he sees the eager chace renew'd,
Himself by dogs, the dogs by nen purfu'd;
He straight revokes his bold resolve, and more
Repents his courage than his fear before;
Finds that uncertain ways unsafeft are,
And doubt a greater mischief than despair.....
Then to the stream, when neither friends, nor force,
Nor speed, nor art avail, he shapes his course;
Thinks not their rage so desperate t' afssay

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An element more merciless than they;

But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood
Quench their dire thirst-alas! they thirst for blood.

So, tow'rds a ship the oar-finn'd gallies ply,

Which wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly,

Stands

Stands but to fall reveng'd on those that dare
Tempt the last fury of extreme despair,
So fares the stag, among th' enraged hounds,
Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds.
And as a hero, whom his baser foes

In troops furround, now these assails, now those,
Tho' prodigal of life, disdains to die
By common hands; but if he can descry
Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls,
And begs his fate, and then contented falls.
So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly
From his unerring hand, then glad to die,
Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood,
And stains the chrystal with a purple flood.
This a more innocent, and kappy chace,
Than when of old, but in the self-fame place,
Fair Liberty pursu'd *, and meant a prey
To lawless power, here turn'd, and stood at bay.
When in that remedy all hope was plac'd
Which was, or should have been at least, the last.
Here was that charter seal'd †, wherein the crown
All marks of arbitrary pow'r lays down;
Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear,
The happier style of king and subject bear: w.
Happy, when both to the same centre move,
When kings give liberty, and subjects love.
Therefore, not long in force this charter stood;
Wanting that feal, it must be seal'd in blood.
The subjects arm'd; the more their princes gave,
Th' advantage only took, the more to crave;
Till kings by giving, give themselves away,
And e'en that pow'r, that should deny, betray.

• Runny-Mead, where that Great Charter was first sealed. + Magna Charta.

• Who gives constrain'd, but his own fear reviles,
' Not thank'd, but scorn'd; nor are they gifts, but spoi
Thus kings, by grasping more than they could hold,
First made their fubjects, by oppression, bold;
And popular sway, by forcing kings to give
More than was fit for subjects to receive,
Ran to the same extremes; and one excess
Made both, by striving to be greater, less.
When a calm river rais'd with sudden rains,
Or snows dissolv'd, o'erflows th' adjoining plains,
The husbandmen, with high-rais'd banks, secure
Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure :
But if with bays and dams they ftrive to force
His channel to a new or narrow course;
No longer then within his banks he dwells,
First to a torrent, then a deluge swells;
Stronger and fiercer, by restraint he roars,
And knows no bound, but makes his pow'r his hores,

POLLIO*:

AN ELEGIACK ODE.

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WRITTEN IN THE WOOD NEAR CASTLE, MDCCLXII.

T

BY MR. MICKLE.

Hæc Jovem sentire, Deosque cunctos.
Spem bonam certamque domum reporto.

HE peaceful evening breathes her balmy store,
The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green:

Where spreading poplars shade the cottage-door,
The villagers in ruftick joy convene.

f

Hos.

• It has been often said, that Fiction is the most proper field for poetry. If it i always so, the writer of this little piece acknowledges it is a circumstance against im. The following Ode was first suggested, and the ideas contained in it raised, n revisiting the ruins and woods that had been the scene of his early amusements, with a deserving brother who died in his twenty-first year.

Amid the secret windings of the wood,
With folemn Meditation let me stray;
This is the hour when, to the wife and good,
The heavenly maid repays the toils of day,

The river murmurs, and the breathing gale
Whispers the gently-waving boughs among;
The star of evening glimmers o'er the dale,
And leads the filent host of heaven along.

How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height,
The filver empress of the night appears!
Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light,
And faintly in it's breast the woodland bears,

The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed,
Solemn and conftant, from yon dell resound;
The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade;
The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground,

August and hoary, o'er the floping dale,

The Gothick abbey rears it's sculptur'd towers; Dull through the roofs resounds the whistling gale, Dark Solitude among the pillars lours.

Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves,
And folemn shade a chapel's sad remains,
Where yon scath'd poplar through the window waves,
And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains;

There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,
Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where,
Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd,
Pores on the graves, and fighs a broken prayer.

High o'er the pines, that with their darkening shade
Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears
It's crumbling turrets: still it's towery head
A warlike mien, a fullen grandeur wears.

So, midst the snow of age, a boastful air

Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare, Tho' trembling o'er the feeble crutch he bends.

Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flowers creep,
Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led,
Gone is the bower, the grot a ruin'd heap,
Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread,

'Twas here our fires, exulting from the fight,
Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the lea,
Eying their rescu'd fields with proud delight!!
Now loft to them!-and, ah! how chang'd to me!

This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,
The dear idea of my Pollio bring;

So shone the moon through these soft nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.

When April's smiles the flowery lawn adorn,
And modeft cowslips deck the streamlet's fide;
When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn.....
Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours dy'd:

So fair a blossom gentle Pollio wore,
These were the emblems of his healthful mind;

To him the letter'd page display'd it's lore,

To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign'd;