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Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear,
He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.

Far other treatment she who breathless lay,
Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increas'd by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, The ruffian officer oppos'd her stay, And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless, had shę strove. Abandon'd there—with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expir'd—the rest I've told.

“ Now let me swear-For by my soul's last sigh, “ That thief shall live, that overseer shall die."

Too late!—his life the generous robber paid,
Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd!
No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear,
No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear;
No liberal justice first assign'd the gaol,
Or urg'd, as Camplin would have urg'd, his tale.


On Carron's side the primrose pale,

Why does it wear a purple hue ?
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood

That purple grows the primrose pale; That pity pours the tender flood

From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sat in his eye,

The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye,

To him who rests in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,

Though nobly born, is Owen laid, Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,

He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,

And fled before the mountain gale, Since first his simple dirge he sung;

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet

Hath wanderd o'er your meads of gold, That dirge I hear so simply sweet Far echo'd from each evening fold.

II. 'Twas in the pride of William's day,

When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store

The fairer 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 charms, were earth and stone.

For her the youth of Scotland sigh’d,

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

And many an English baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts assail'd,

No foreign loves her breast beguile, And England's honest 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!

“Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love

Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! “ For soon those gentle arms shall prove

• The conflict of a ruder field.”

'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke,

And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dim wood-glen she broke,

And mounted on the moaning wind.

She'spoke and vanish’d-more unmov'd

Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest, The valiant youth by Ellep lov’d,

With aught that fear or fate suggest.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise

The soul beyond a vulgar state;
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays

Control our fears and fix our fate.


'Twas when, on summer's softest eve,

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

Her fairy robe of night and day;

When all the mountain gales were still,

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

Left his last smile on Lammermore;

Led by those waking dreams of thought

That warm the young unpractis'd breast, Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought, And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd her

into rest.

There is some kind and courtly sprite

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

And smiles at slumber's powerless chains;

'Tis told, and I believe the tale,

At this soft hour that sprite 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 sight.)

Such bower he fram'd with magic hand,

As well that wizard bard hath wove, In scenes where fair Armida's wand

Wav'd all the witcheries of love:

Yet was it wrought in simple show;

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.

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