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'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,
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 ;
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
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.
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
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.
Some soft ideas melt away,
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,
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.