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O WEN

OF CARRO N.

ON

N CARRON's fide the primrose pale,

Why does it wear a purple hue ?" Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew? 'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood

That purple grows the primrofe pale; That pity pours the tender flood

From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star fate in his eye,

The fun his golden treffes gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,

To him who refts in yonder grave !

Beneath no high, hiftoric ftone,

Tho' nobly born, is Owen laid, Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,

He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,

And fled before the mountain gale, Since first his simple dirge ye sung ;

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet

Hath wanderd o'er your meads of gold, That Dirge I hear so fimply sweet

Far echoed from each evening fold.

II. "T'was in the pride of WILLIAM'S * Days,

When Scotland's honours flourished fill, That Moray's Earl, with mignty sway,

Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store

The faireft plains of Carron spread,
In Fortune rich, in offspring poor,

An only daughter crown'd his Bed.
Oh! write not poor--the wealth that flows

In wares of Gold round India's throne,
All in her shining breast that glows,

To Ellen's + charms, were earth and ftone.

For her the Youth of Scotland figh’d,

The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave, And smoother Italy applied,

And many an English Baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts affail'd,

No foreign loves her breaft beguile, And England's honeft valour faild,

Paid with a cold but courteous smile,

« Ah! woe to thee, young

Nithisdale, " That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd, " Thy breath, the violet of the vale,

Thy voice, the music of the shade !

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+ The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithifdale, and after wards to the Earl Barnard, was esteemed one of the finest women in Europe, insomuch that she had several suitors and admirers from Foreign Courta.

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“ Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love

“ Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! “ For foon those gentle arms shall prove

“ The conflict of a ruder field.”

'Twas thus a wayward fifter spoke,

And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dimwood glen she broke,

And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanish'd-more unmov'd

Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest, The valiant youth by Ellen lov'd

With aught that dear, or fate suggeit.
For love, methioks, hath power to raise

The foul above a vulgar state ;
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays

Controul our fears, and fix our fate.

UI.
Twas when, on suinmer's fuftest eve,

Of clouds that wander'd weft away,
Twilight with gentle hand did weave

Her fairy robe of night and day.

When all the mountain gales were still,

And the wave slept against the shore, And the sun funk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lemmermore

Led by those waking dreams of thought

That warm the young unpractis'd breast, Her wonted bower sweet Ellen fought,

And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd her into rest.

* A chain of mountains running through Scotland from East to West.

IV.
There is some kind and courtly sprite,

That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
Throws funshine on the mask of night,

And smiles at slumber's powerless chains ;

'Tis told and I believe the tale,

At this soft hour the 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 Aame.

Darts on the unsuspecting fight.)

Such bower he fram'd with magic hand

As well that wizzard bard hath wove, In scenes where fair Armida's Wand

Wav'd all the witcheries of love.

Yet was it wrought in fimple Mhew ;

Nor Indian Mines nor orient hores Had lent their glories here to glow,

Or yielded here their shining fores.

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 cou!rts the mountain-air,

In all her painted blooms array'd, The wilding's blossom blushing fair,

Combin' 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 besprcad.

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