Sidor som bilder


'Twas in the pride of William's * Days,

When Scotland's honours Aourished ftill, That Moray's Earl, with mighty sway,

Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store

The faireft plains of Carron spread, In Fortune rich, in offspring poor,

An only daughter crown'd his Bed.

Oh! write not poor the wealth that flows

In waves of Gold round India's throne, All in her shining breast that glows,

To Ellen's t charms, were earth and stone. For her the Youth of Scotland figh’d,

The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave, And smoother Italy applied,

And many an English Baron brave. In vain by foreign arts affailid,

No foreign loves her breaft beguile, And England's honeft valour fail'd,

Paid with a cold but courteous smile.

« Ah! woe to thee, young

Nithisdale, “ That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd, “ Thy breath, the violet of the vale,

Thy voice, the music of the shade!

* William the Lyon, King of Scotland.

+ The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithisdale, and afterwards to the Earl Barnard, was este ed one of the finest women in Europe, insomuch that she had several suitors and admirers from Foreign Courts.

" Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love

" Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! " For foon those gentle arms shall prove

“ The conflict of a ruder field.:)

"Twas thus a wayward fifter spoke,

And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dimwood glen she broke,

And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanish'd-more unmov'd

Than Moray's rocks, when forma invest, The valiant youth by Ellen lov'd

With aught that fear, or fate suggeit.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise

The soul above a vulgar flate ;
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays

Controul our fears, and fix our fate.

III. 'Twas when, on fummer's softest eve,

Of clouds that wander'd west away, Twilight with gentle hand die weave

Her fairy robe of night and day.

When all the mountain gales were still,

And the wave slept against the shore, And the sun sunk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lemmermore*.

Led by those waking dreams of thought
That warm


young unpractis'd breast, Her wonted bower sweet Ellen fought,

And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd her into rest.

* A chain of mountains running through Scotland from East to West.

There is some kind and courtly sprite,

That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
Throws {unshine on the mask of night,

And smiles at Number's powerless chains ;

'Tis told and I believe the tale,

At this soft bour the fprite was there, And spread with fairer flowers the vale,

And fill d with sweeter sounds the air.

A bower he fram'd (for he could frame

What long might weary mortal wight: Swift as the lightning's rapid flame

Darts on the unsuspecting fight.)

Such bower he fram'd with magic hand

As well that wizzard bard hath wove, In scenes where fair Armida's Wand

Wav'd all the witcheries of love.

Yet was it wrought in fimple shew;

Nor Indian Mines nor orient shores Had lent their glories here to glow,

Or yielded here their shining stores.

All round a poplar's trembling arms

The wild rose wound her damask flower ; The woodbine lent her spicy charms,

That loves to weave the lover's bower.

The ash that courts the mountain-air,

In all her paioted blooms array'd, The wilding's blossom blushing fair,

Combin' to form the flowery shade.

With thyme that loves the brown bill's breait,

The cowslip's sweet reclining head, The violet of sky woven vett,

Was all the fairy ground bespread.

But, who is he, whose locks fo fair

Adown bis manly Moulders flow ; Beside him lies the hunter's spear,

Beside him Neeps the warrior's bow.

He bends to Ellen-(gentle Sprite.

Thy sweet seductive arts forbear) He courts her arms with fond delight,

And instant vanishes in air.

Haft thou not found at early dawn

Some soft ideas melt away,
If o'er sweet vale, or flowery lawn,

The sprite of dreams hath bid thee itray

Hast thou not some fair object seen,

And, when the fleeting form was paft, Still on thy memory found its mein,

And felt the fond idea laft ?

Thou haft-and oft the pictur'd view,

Seen in some vision counted vain, Has ftruck thy wondering eye anew,

And brought the long loft dream again. With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear,

With locks adown his shoulders spread, Young Nithisdale is ranging near

He's ranging near yon mountain's head. Scarce had one pale moon pass’d away,

And filled her filver urn again, When in the devious chace to stray,

Afar from all his woodland train.

To Carron's banks his fate confignid,

And, all to Thun the fervid hour,
He fought fome friendly shade to find,

And found the visionary bower.

VI. Led by the golden star of love,

Sweet Ellen took her wonted way, And in the deep defending Grove

Sought refuge from the fervid day.Oh!-who is he whose ringlets fair

Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow, Reclin’d in ref whose sunny hair

Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?

"l'is he, that sprite's illufive guest,

(Ah me! that sprites can fate controul!) That lives still imag'd on her breast,

That lives still pictur'd in her soul.

As when some gentle spirit fed

From earth to breathe Elysian air, And, in the train whom we call dead,

Perceives its long-lov'd partner there.

Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o’er,

Refiftless, o'er its airy frame, To find its future fate restore

The object of its former flame.

So Ellen stoodless power to move

Had he, who bound in sumber's chain, Seem'd haply, o'er his hills to rove,

And wind his woodland chafe again.

She ftood, but trembled-mingled fear

And fond delight and melting love Seiz'd all her soul, she came not near,

She came pot near that fated grove.

She'strives to fly-from wizzard's wand

As well might powerless captive flyThe new cropt flower fails from her hand

Ah! fall not with that flower to die.

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