There is fome kind and courtly fprite,
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
Throws funshine on the mask of night,
And files at flumber's powerless chains;
'Tis told and I believe the tale,
At this foft hour the fprite was there, And spread with fairer flowers the vale, And fill'd with sweeter founds 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 unfufpecting fight.)
Such bower he fram'd with magic hand
As well that wizzard bard hath wove,
In fcenes where fair Armida's Wand
Wav'd all the witcheries of love.
Yet was it wrought in fimple fhew;
Nor Indian Mines nor orient shores
Had lent their glories here to glow,
Or yielded here their fhining ftores.
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 bloffom blushing fair,
Combin'd to form the flowery fhade.
With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast, The cowflip's fweet reclining head,
The violet of sky woven veft,
Was all the fairy ground befpread.
But, who is he, whofe locks fo fair
Adown his manly fhoulders flow;
Befide him lies the hunter's fpear,
Befide him fleeps the warrior's bow.
He bends to Ellen-(gentle fprite.
Thy fweet feductive arts forbear)
He courts her arms with fond delight,
And inftant vanishes in air.
Haft thou not found at early dawn
Some foft ideas melt away,
If o'er fweet vale, or flowery lawn,
The fprite of dreams hath bid thee ftray?
Haft thou not fome fair object seen,
And, when the fleeting form was paft,
Still on thy memory found its mein,
And felt the fond idea laft?
Thou haft-and oft the pictur'd view,
Seen in fome vifion counted vain,
Has ftruck thy wondering eye anew,
And brought the long loft dream again.
With warrior-bow, with hunter's fpear,
With locks adown his fhoulders fpread,
Young Nithifdale is ranging near-
He's ranging near yon mountain's head.
Scarce had one pale moon pafs'd away,
And fill'd her filver urn again,
When in the devious chace to ftray,
Afar from all his woodland train,
To Carron's banks his fate confign'd,
And, all to fhun the fervid hour,
He fought fome friendly fhade to find,
And found the vifionary bower.
Led by the golden ftar of love,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way,
And in the deep defending Grove
Sought refuge from the fervid day.
Oh !-who is he whofe ringlets fair
Diforder'd o'er his green veft flow,
Reclin'd in reft-whofe funny hair
Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?
"Tis he, that sprite's illufive gueft,
(Ah me! that fprites can fate controul!) That lives ftill imag'd on her breast, That lives ftill pictur'd in her foul.
As when fome gentle fpirit fled
From earth to breathe Elyfian air,
And, in the train whom we call dead,
Perceives its long-lov'd partner there.
Soft, fudden pleasure rushes o'er,
Refiftless, o'er its airy frame,
To find its future fate reftore
The object of its former flame.
So Ellen flood- -lefs power to move
Had he, who bound in flumber's chain,
Seem'd haply, o'er his hills to rove,
And wind his woodland chafe again.
She flood, but trembled--mingled fear
And fond delight and melting love
Seiz'd all her foul, the came not near,
She came not near that fated
She ftrives to fly-from wizzard's wand
As well might powerlefs captive fly-
The new cropt flower falls from her hand-
Ah! fall not with that flower to die.
Haft thou not feen fome azure gleam.
Smile in the morning's orient eye,
And skirt the reddening clouds foft beam
What time the fun was hafting nigh?
and thou canft,fancy well
As any mufe that meets thine ear, The foul-fet eye of Nithifdale,
When wak'd, it fix'd on Ellen near.
Silent they gaz'd-that 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 fteep,
• Unwearied chace the deftin'd prey,
'For thee I'll pierce the wild-wood deep,
And part the fprays that vex thy way.'
For thee-
O ftranger, cease,' she said,
And fwift away, like Daphne, flew,
But Daphne's flight was not delay'd
By aught that to her bofom grew.
'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit,
The fond Idea that confin'd
Fair Ellen's fteps, and blefs'd his fuit,
Who was not far, not far behind.
O love! within thofe golden vales,
Thofe genial airs where thou waft born,
Where nature listening thy foft tales,
Leans on the rofy breast of morn.
Where the fweet Smiles, the Graces dwell,
And tender fighs the heart emove,
In filent eloquence to tell
Thy tale, O foul-fubduing love!
Ah! wherefore should grim rage be nigh, And dark diftruft with changeful face, And Jealoufy'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 abfent 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 fway controul,
Know, Lothian is not worth one heart.
Studious he marks her abfent hour,
And winding far where Carron flows, Sudden he fees the fated bower,
And red rage on his dark brow glows.
For who is he?'tis Nithifdale!
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 fwift pursue ?
No-that would all his hopes destroy?
Moray would vanifh from his view,
And rob him of a Mifer's joy.
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