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“ And O thou silent picture fair,
That lov'st to smile upon me there,
O say, and fill my heart with joy,
That I am not a shepherd's boy."

Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay

May not thy gentle life prolong:
Seest thou yon nightingale a prey ?

The fierce hawk hov’ring o'er his song?

His little heart is large with love :

He sweetly hails his ev'ning star;
And fate's more pointed arrows move,
Insidious, from his eye afar.

The shepherdess, whose kindly care

Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath,
Must now their silent mansions share,

Whom time leads calmly down to death.

“O tell me, parent if thou art,

“ What is this lovely picture dear? “ Why wounds its mournful eye my heart?

Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear?"

Ah, youth! to leave thee loth am I,

“ Though I be not thy parent dear; And would'st thou wish, or ere I die,

“ The story of thy birth to hear?

“ But it will make thee much bewail,

“ And it will make thy fair eye swell." She said, and told the woesome tale, As sooth as shepherdess might tell.

The heart that sorrow doom'd to share

Has worn the frequent seal of woe,
Its sad impressions learns to bear,

And finds full oft its ruin slow.

But when that seal is first imprest,

When the young heart its pain shall try, From the soft, yielding, trembling breast,

Oft seems the startled soul to fly:

Yet fled not Owen's-wild amaze

In paleness cloth’d, and lifted hands, And horror's dread unmeaning gaze,

Mark the poor statue as it stands.

The simple guardian of his life

Look'd wistful for the tear to glide ; But, when she saw his tearless strife, Silent, she lent him one--and died.

XXV. “ No, I am not a shepherd's boy,"

Awaking from his dream, he said : « Ah, where is now the promis'd joy

“ Of this ?-for ever, ever fled!

“ O picture dear!—for her lov'd sake

u How fondly could my heart bewail ! “ My friendly shepherdess, O wake,

“ And tell me more of this sad tale :

" O tell me more of this sad tale

“ No; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep! “ And I will go to Lothian's vale, “ And more than all her waters weep.”

XXVI. Owen to Lothian's vale is fled

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear “ O! art thou there?" the full heart said,

“O! art thou there, my parent dear?"

Yes, she is there : from idle state

Oft has she stole her hour to weep; Think how she “ by thy cradle sat,”

And how she “ fondly saw thee sleep."

Now tries his trembling hand to frame

Full many a tender line of love;
And still he blots the parent's name,
For that, he fears, might fatal prove. .

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side

Reclin'd a dim tower, clad with moss,

bird was wont to bide, That languish'd for its partner's loss.

This scene he chose, this scene assign'd

A parent's first embrace to wait, And many a soft fear fill'd his mind,

Anxious for his fond letter's fate.

The hand that bore those lines of love,

The well-informing bracelet boreAh! may they not unprosperous prove! Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!

XXVIII. “ She comes not;-can she then delay?"

Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear«Whatever filial love could say,

« To her I said, and call'd her dear.

“ She comes-Oh! no-encircled round,

“ 'Tis some rude chief with many a spear. My hapless tale that earl has found« Ah me! my heart for her I fear.”

His tender tale that earl had read,

Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye; His dark brow wears a cloud of red, In rage he deems a rival nigh.

XXIX. 'Tis o'er--those locks that wav'd in gold,

That wav'd adown those cheeks so fair, Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,

Hang from the sever'd head in air!

That streaming head he joys to bear

In horrid guise to Lothian's halls; Bids his grim ruffians place it there,

Erect upon the frowning walls.

The fatal tokens forth he drew

“ Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale ?" The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew,

And soon her lovely cheek grew pale.

The trembling victim straight he led,

Ere yet her soul's first fear was o’er: He pointed to the ghastly head

She saw-and sunk to rise no more.


BORN 1743.-DIED 1779.

The history of Penrose displays a dash of warlike adventure, which has seldom enlivened the biography of our poets. He was not led to the profession of arms, like Gascoigne, by his poverty, or like Quarles, Davenant, and Waller, by political circumstances; but, in a mere fit of juvenile ardour, gave up his studies at Oxford, where he was preparing to become a clergyman, and left the banners of the church for those of the battle. This was in the

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