IV.

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.

The ash, that courts the mountain-air,
In all her painted blooms array'd,
The wilding's blossom blushing fair,
Combin❜d to form the flowery shade.

With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast, The cowslip's sweet, reclining head,

The violet of sky-woven vest,

Was all the fairy ground bespread.

But who is he, whose locks so fair
Adown his manly shoulders flow?
Beside him lies the hunter's spear,
Beside him sleeps 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.

V.

Hast thou not found at early dawn
Some soft ideas melt away,

If o'er sweet vale, or flow'ry lawn,

The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray?

Hast thou not some fair object seen,

And, when the fleeting form was past,

Still on thy memory found its mien,
And felt the fond idea last?

Thou hast and oft the pictur'd view,

Seen in some vision counted vain, Has struck thy wond'ring eye anew, And brought the long-lost dream again.

With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear, With locks adown his shoulder spread, Young Nithisdale is ranging near

He's ranging near yon mountain's head.

Scarce had one pale moon pass'd away,
And fill'd her silver urn again,
When in the devious chase to stray,
Afar from all his woodland train,

To Carron's banks his fate consign'd;
And, all to shun the fervid hour,
He sought some 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 to rest-whose sunny hair

Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?

'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest,

(Ah me! that sprites can fate control!) That lives still imag'd on her breast, That lives still pictur'd in her soul.

As when some gentle spirit fled

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,
Resistless, o'er its airy frame,

To find its future fate restore

The object of its former flame:

So Ellen stood-less power to move

Had he, who, bound in slumber's chain, Seem'd hap❜ly o'er his hills to rove, And wind his woodland chase again.

She stood, but trembled-mingled fear,
And fond delight, and melting love,
Seiz'd all her soul; she came not near,
She came not near that fated grove.

She strives to fly-from wizard's wand
As well might powerless captive fly-
The new-cropt flower falls from her hand-
Ah! fall not with that flower to die!

VII.

Hast thou not seen some azure gleam
Smile in the morning's orient eye,
And skirt the reddening cloud's soft beam
What time the sun was hasting nigh?

Thou hast and thou canst fancy well
As any Muse that meets thine ear,
The soul-set eye of Nithisdale,

When, wak'd, it fix'd on Ellen near.

Silent they gaz'd-that silence broke; "Hail, goddess of these groves, (he cried) "O let me wear thy gentle yoke! "O let me in thy service bide!

"For thee I'll climb the mountains steep, "Unwearied chase the destin'd prey; "For thee I'll pierce the wild wood deep, "And part the sprays that vex thy way.

"For thee"-" O stranger, cease," she said,
And swift away, like Daphne, flew ;
But Daphne's flight was not delay'd
By aught that to her bosom grew.

VIII.

'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit,

The fond idea that confin'd

Fair Ellen's steps, and bless'd his suit,

Who was not far, not far behind.