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Halt thou not seen some azure gleam

Smile in the morning's orient eye,
And skirt the reddening clouds soft beam

What time the fun was bafting nigh?

Thou hafland thou canft fancy well

As any muse that meets thine car, The soul-set eye of Nithisdale,

When wak’d, it fix'd on Ellen near.

Silent they gaz'dmthat filence broke ;

• Hail Goddess of these Groves, he cried, ! O let me wear thy gentle yoke.'

• O let me in thy fervice bide.

• For thee I'll climb the mountain Ateep,

• Unwearied chace the destin'd prey,
For thee I'll pierce the wild-wood deep,
• And part the fprays that vex thy way.'

For thee

O Atranger, cease,' she said, And swift away, like Daphne, flew, But Daphne’s Aight was not delay'd

By aught that to her bosom grew.

'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit,

The fond Idea that confin'd
Fair Ellen's steps, and blefe'd his suit,

Who was not far, not far behind.


O love ! within those golden vales,

Those genial airs where thou wast born, Where nature liftening thy soft tales,

Leans on the rosy breast of morn.

Where the sweet Smiles, the Graces dwell,

And tender fighs the heart emove, In filent eloquence to tell

Thy lale, O soul-subduing love ! Ah! wherefore should grim rage be nigh,

And dark diftraft with changeful face, And Jealousy's reverted eye

Be near thy fair thy favour'd place?

Earl Barnard was of high degree,

And Lord of many a Lowland Hind,
And long for Ellen love had he,

Had love, but not of gentle kind.

From Moray's Halls her absent hour

He watch'd with all a Mifer's care : The wide Domain, the princely Dower

Made Ellen more than Ellen fair.

Ah wretch! to think the liberal foul

May thus with fair affection part ! Though Lothian's vales thy sway controul,

Know, Lothian is not worth one heart.

Studious he marks her absent hour,

And winding far where Carron flows, Sudden he sees the fated bower,

And red rage on his dark brow glows.

For who is he?-'tis Nithisdale !

And that fair form with arm reclin'd On his ?--'tis Ellen of the vale,

?Tis She (O powers of vengeance !) kind.

Should he that vengeance swift pursue ?

No-that would all his hopes destroy? Moray would vanish from his view,

And rob him of a Miser's joy.

Unfeen to Moray's Halls he hies

He calls his flaves, his ruffian band, • And haite to yonder groves,' He cries,

· And ambush'd lie by Carron's strand,'

• What time ye mark from bower or glen,

A gentle lady take her way • To distance due, and far from ken,

• Allow her length of time to stray. • Then ransack straight that range


groves. . With hunter's spear, and vest of green, • If chance, a rofy stripling roves,

• Ye well can aim your arrows keen.'

And now the ruffian saves are nigh,

And Ellen takes her homeward way: Though ftay'd by many a tender figh,

She can no longer, longer stay. Pensive, against yon poplar pale

The lover leans his gentle heart, Revolving many a tender tale,

And wondering still how they could part. Three arrow's pierc'd the desert air,

Ere yet his tender dreams depart ; And one struck deep his forehead fair,

And one went through his gentle heart.

Love's waking dream is lost in sleep

He lies beneath yon poplar pale ; Ah! could we marvel ye

Thould weep; Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

When all the mountain gales were still,

And the wave slept against the shore.
And the fun, funk beneath the hill,
Left his last smile on Lemmermore ;


Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way

Along the fairy-featur'd vale, Bright o'er his wave does Carron play,

And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale.

She'll meet him soon-for at her sight

Swift as the mountain deer he sped ; The evening shades will fink in night,

Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ? O ! She will chide thy trifling stay,

E'en now the soft reproach she frames : « Can lovers brook such long delay ?

• Lovers that boast of ardent Aames !'

He comes not-weary with the chace,

Soft flumber o'er his eyelids throws Her veil-we'll steal one dear embrace,

We'll gently steal on his repose.

This is the bower-we'll softly tread

He sleeps beneath yon poplar paleLover, if e'er thy heart has bled,

Thy heart will far forego my tale!

XI. Ellen is not in princely bower,

She's not in Moray's splendid train ; Their mistress dear at midnight hour,

Her weeping maidens feck in vain.

Her pillow swells not deep with dowo),

For her no balms their sweets exhale : Her limbs ara w the pale turf thrown,

Press’d by her lovely check as pale.

On that fair check, that flowing hair,

The broom its yellow leaf hath shed, And the chill mountain's early air

Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head.

As the soft star of orient Day,

When clouds involve his rosy light, Darts through the gloom a transient ray,

And leaves the world once more to night ;

Returning life illumes her eye,

And now its languid orh What are those bloody arrows nigh?

Sure, bloody arrows she beholds !

What was the form so ghaftly pale,

That low beneath the poplar lay? 'Twas some poor Youth Ah Nithildale !'

She said, and filent funk away.


The morn is on the mountains spread,

The woodlark thrills his liquid strain Can morn's sweet music raise the dead?

Give the set eye it's soul again?

A shepherd of that gentler mind,

Which nature not profusely yields, Seeks in these lonely shades to find

Some wanderer from his little fields.

Aghaft he stands and simple fear

O'er all his paly visage glides,
Ah me! what means this misery here?
• What fate this lady fair betides?"

He bears her to his friendly home,

When life, he finds, has but retir'd; With hafte he frames the lover's tomb,

For his is quite, is quite expir'd!

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