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I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side
From her white arm down funk her head :

She, shivering, figh’dmand died.

POLLIO.

BY MICKLE.
HE peaceful evening breathes her balmy, store,

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Where spreading poplars shade the cottage door,

The villagers in rustic joy convene.

Amid the secret windings of the wood,

With folemn Meditation let me Atray;
This is the hour when, to the wise 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 dalej.

Aud 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 its breast the woodland bears,

The waters rumbling o'er their rocky bed,

Solemn and constant from the 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 sloping dale,

The Gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd towers ; Dull through the roots resound 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 thepherd, 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 Its crumbling turrets : still its towery head

A warlike mein, of fullen grandeur wears.

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So, midft the snow of age, a boaftful air

Still on the war worn vet'ran's brow attends : Still his big bones his youthful prime declare,

Though trembling o'er the feeble crutch he bends.

Wild round the gales the dusky wall-flowers creepy

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 fragnsents spread.

'Twas here our fires, exulting from the fight,

Great in their bloody arms march'd o'er the leag. 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 Póllio bring ;
So shone the moon through the soft nodding trees,

When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.

When April's fmiles the flowery ławn adorn,

And modest cowslips deck the streamlets fide ; When fragrant orchards to the roseat morn

Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours dy'a.

So fair a blossom, in gentle Pollio wore,

These were the emblems of his healthful mind! To him the letterd page difplay'd its Fore,

To him bright Fancy all her wealth refign'd;

Him, with her purest flames the Mule endow'd,

Flames never to th” illiberal thought allya; The sacred fifters led where Virtue glowd

In all her charms: he faw, he felt, and dy'di.

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Oh, partner of my infant griefs and joys!

Big with the scenes now paft, my heart o'er flows. Bids each endearment, fair as once to rise,

And dwells luxurious on her melting woes ::

Oft with the rising fun, when life was new,

Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee :: Oft by the moon have brushed the evening dew,

When all was fearless innocence and glee.

The fainted well, where yon bleak hill declines,

Has oft been conscious of those happy hours ! But now the hill, the river crown’d with pine,

And sainted well, have lost their chearing powers ;

For thou art gone. My guide, my friend! oh, where,

Where haft thou fled, and left me here behind My tenderest wish; my heart to thee was bare,

Oh! now cut off each passage to thy mind!

How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how void,

The trackless Thores that never were repass’d; Dread separation ! on the depth utry'd

Hope faulters, and the soul recoils aghaft ;

Wide round the fpacious heaven's I caft my eyes :

And shall these fars glow with immortal fire ! Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies !

And could thy bright, thy living foul expire ?

Far be the thought! The pleasures moft fublimer

The glow of friendship and the virtuous tear, The towring wish that scorns the bounds of time,

Chilld in this vale of death, but languilh here

So plant the vine on Norway's wint'ry land,

The languid ftranger feebly buds and dies: Yet there's a clime where Virtue shall expand

With godlike strength beneath her native skies !

The lonely shepherd on the mountain's fide,

With patience waits the rosy opening day ; The mariner at midnight's darksome tide,

With cheerful hope expects the morning ray:

Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean toss'd,

In mental vision view the happy shore, Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast,"

Where fate and death divide the friends no more!

Oh' that some kind, fome pitying kindred Thade,

Who now, perhaps frequents this solemn grove, Would tell the awful fecrets of the dead

And from my eyes the mortal film remove !

Vain is the with-yet surely not in vain

Man's bofom glows with that celestial fire, Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles at pain,

And wings his spirit with sublime defire !

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