There, hapless Ellen sojourn'd long,
Afraid to trace her homeward track;
But, thence, conceal'd the caves among;
On every breeze á sigh sent back.

Beyond the chasmy rock, one morn

As the sad maiden mus'd on home,

Sudden, she heard the hunter's horn

And down the wildwood bath'd in foam

Saw rushing steeds. Above the rest

In manly graces, sunny hair

His open brow half-shadowing, press'd

His horse, where stood the troubled fair,

Young Morar, lord of many a clan.
He check'd his courser in amaze,

And o'er her well known beauties ran
With eager and enamour'd gaze.

And," is it Ellen---my own love?” (He cries, dismounted to sustain Her tottering frame) "thro' glen and grove

"Oh! I have sought thee, long in vain.

"With pale distrust my ruthless sire

"I view'd, when on our loves he stole ; “And fear'd, in his deep brooding ire,

"The assassin's steel, the poison'd bowl."

"Alas! the ruffians stern" (she said)

"That bore me off, all masqued and mute,
"Let drop their daggers as dismay'd,
"Then hovering as in fierce dispute→→→

"I swoon'd. But strait the mountain gales
"Restor'd thine Ellen's youthful glow;
"And lone o'er heaths, thro' winding dales
"I reach'd yon fisher's hut below.

"There”----“ Cease, my Ellen! cease! my claim

"By love, by duty's every tie!

"To grace a castle, be thy fame

"My sire is dead, and earl am I.

"Full soon shall wealth and splendour own

"A cottage-girl's superior charms,

"When Ellen shall be found, alone

"To bless her faithful Morar's arms."

ODE

To Mrs. M. E. who sange to her Lute.

Noe more of this eare-lecherie! laye bye

Tune

That gilded lute!

And let thy sweeter voyce be mute!

up

those veines for nature's harmonye;

That everie sineweye touch

May in our mutual sympathye be such, As when two vyols bye one hand doe move:

Ther is noe musick like consorte in love.

Entreatyes cannot silence; yet extorte

Musical ayres

From harpes strunge with a thousand haires,

For the blinde harper, amorous Cupid's sporte,

Who steals this waye more hearts

Than conquers by his golden-headed darts: Women ar his best instruments to prove

Ther is no musick like consorte in love.

This ode may surprize by the force of contrast. And well it may. For it was written by the author's G. G. Grandfather, John Polwhele, of Polwhele Esq.-In a duodecimo volume of manuscript poems by this gentleman, references are often made to a folio volume of manuscripts: but this is unfortunately lost.—The little book in question, contains some original odes as well as translations from Boethius and Horace. They are all in the handwriting of John Polwhele: and they certainly display a classic imagination. The versification indeed, is unpolished: but it bears the character of the times; not much inferior to the minor poetry of Ben Jonson, who is the subject of the poet's panegyric. By way of further specimen, the following little pieces are extracted from the manuscript.

For Mr. Bonithon to Mrs. Wilmot Prideaux.

-O could my claspinge armes

Garlande thy waist, and bee soe stronge, from harmes

As quicke to guard thee. I am not of those
Who show their new scour'd gummes, and crisped nose
In amorous laughter; and wil masked sweare
There's nought but thy displeasure that I feare.
I cann sit coverde, when some drinke thy healthe,
And vanish at thy name, even by a stealth
Secrete as love is constant, leaste my hearte
By pantinge sh'd discover the sweet darte
I kiste for woundinge !"-----

To the admired Ben Jonson,

to encourage him to write after his farewel to the stage, 1631, alludinge to Horace's ode 26, lib. 1.

Musis amicus &c.

Ben, thou arte the Muses friende,
Griefe and tears cast to the winde!
Who winns, the Emperour, or Sweade,

Sole secure, thou nothinge dreade
Inhabitante near Hyppo-crene,

Plucke sweete roses by that stream!

Put thy laurel-crownet on,

What is Fame, if thou hast none?