IV. There is some kind and courtly sprite '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 Such bower he fram'd with magic hand, Yet was it wrought in simple show; 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, 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 He bends to Ellen-(gentle sprite, V. Hast thou not found at early dawn 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, 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, To Carron's banks his fate consign'd; Led by the golden star of love, Oh!-who is he whose ringlets fair 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, 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, She strives to fly-from wizard's wand VII. Hast thou not seen some azure gleam Thou hast and thou canst fancy well 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, 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. |