Unfeen to Moray's Halls he hies-
He calls his flaves, his ruffian band,
And hafte to yonder groves,' He cries,
And ambush'd lie by Carron's ftrand,'
• What time ye mark from bower or glen,
A gentle lady take her way
< To distance due, and far from ken,
'Allow her length of time to stray.
Then ranfack ftraight that range of groves. 'With hunter's fpear, and veft of green, If chance, a rofy ftripling roves,'Ye well can aim your arrows keen.'
And now the ruffian flaves are nigh,
And Ellen takes her homeward way:
Though ftay'd by many a tender figh,
She can no longer, longer stay.
Penfive, against yon poplar pale
The lover leans his gentle heart,
Revolving many a tender tale,
And wondering ftill how they could part.
Three arrow's pierc'd the defert air,
Ere yet his tender dreams depart;
And one ftruck deep his forehead fair,
And one went through his gentle heart.
Love's waking dream is loft in fleep-
He lies beneath yon poplar pale;
Ah! could we marvel ye fhould weep;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!
When all the mountain gales were ftill,
And the wave flept against the shore.
And the fun, funk beneath the hill,
Left his laft fmile on Lemmérmore;
F
Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way
Along the fairy-featur'd vale,
Bright o'er his wave does Carron play,
And foon fhe'll meet her Nithifdale.
She'll meet him foon-for at her fight
Swift as the mountain deer he fped;
The evening fhades will fink in night,-
Where art thou, loitering lover, fled?
O! She will chide thy trifling ftay,
E'en now the foft reproach fhe frames :
Can lovers brook-fuch long delay?
Lovers that boaft of ardent flames!'
He comes not-weary with the chace,
Soft flumber o'er his eyelids throws
Her veil-we'll fteal one dear embrace,
We'll gently teal on his repofe.
This is the bower-we'll foftly tread-
He fleeps beneath yon poplar pale-
Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled,
Thy heart will far forego my tale!
Ellen is not in princely bower,
She's not in Moray's fplendid train;
Their mistress dear at midnight hour,
Her weeping maidens feek in vain.
Her pillow fwells not deep with down,
For her no balms their fweets exhale : Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, Prefs'd by her lovely check as pale.
On that fair cheek, that flowing hair,
The broom its yellow leaf hath shed,
And the chill mountain's early air
Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head.
As the foft far of orient Day,
When clouds involve his rofy light,
Darts through the gloom a tranfient ray,
And leaves the world once more to night;
Returning life illumes her eye,
And flow its languid orb unfolds--What are thofe bloody arrows nigh? Sure, bloody arrows the beholds!
What was the form fo ghaftly pale,
That low beneath the poplar lay?
'Twas fome poor Youth Ah Nithisdale !'
She faid, and filent funk away.
The morn is on the mountains spread,
The woodlark thrills his liquid ftrain-
Can morn's fweet mufic raise the dead?
Give the fet eye it's foul again?
A fhepherd of that gentler mind,
Which nature not profufely yields,
Seeks in these lonely fhades to find
Some wanderer from his little fields.
Aghaft he ftands-and fimple fear
O'er all his paly vifage glides-
'Ah me! what means this mifery here?
'What fate this lady fair betides?'
He bears her to his friendly home,
When life, he finds, has but retir'd;
With hafte he frames the lover's tomb,
For his is quite, is quite expir'd!
O hide me in thy humble Bower'
Returning late to life fhe faid;
I'll bind thy crook with many a flower;
With many a rofy wreath thy head.
Good fhepherd hafte to yonder grove,
And if my love afleep is laid,
• Oh! wake him not; but foftly move
Some pillow to that gentle head.
Sure, thou wilt know him, fhepherd fwain, Thou know'ft the fun rife o'er the fea-But Oh! no lamb in all thy train
Waз e'er so mild, fo mild as he.'
His head is on the wood-mofs laid;
• I did not wake his flumber deep-
Sweet fings the redbreaft o'er the shade-
Why, gentle lady, would you weep?"
As flowers that fade in burning day,
At evening find the dew-drop dear,
But fiercer feel the hoon-tide ray,
When foften'd by the nightly tear;
Returning in the flowing tear,
This lovely flower more sweet than they, Found her fair foul, and wandering near, The ftranger, Reafon, crofs'd her way.
Found her fair foul-Ah! fo to find
Was but more dreadful grief to know!
Ah! fure, the privilege of mind
Can not be worth the wifh of woe.
On melancholy's filent urn
A fofter fhade of forrow falls,
But Ellen can no more return,
No more return to Moray's Halls.
Beneath the low and lonely fhade
The flow confuming hour fhe'll weep,
Till nature feeks her laft-left aid,
In the fad, fombrous arms of fleep.
Thefe jewels all unmeet for me,
Shalt thou,' fhe faid, good fhepherd take; 'Thefe gems will purchafe gold for thee,
And these be thine for Ellen's fake.
'So fail thou not, at eve and morn,
The rosemary's pale bough to bring'Thou know'ft where I was found forlorn'Where thou haft heard the redbreast fing.
'Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while, 'Or aid thy fhepherdess's care,
For I will fhare her humble toil,
'And I her friendly roof will fhare.'
And now two longfome years are past
In luxury of lonely pain
The lovely mourner, found at last,
To Moray's Halls is borne again.
Yet has the left one object dear,
That wears Love's funny eye of joy
Is Nithifdale reviving here?
Or is it but a fhepherd's boy?
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