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OWEN OF CARRON.

N CARRON'S fide the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple. hue?

ON

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why ftream 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 far 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 fleeps beneath the waving fhade.

There many a flowery race hath fprung,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his fimple dirge ye fung;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!

Yet ftill, when May with fragrant feet
Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold,

That Dirge I hear fo fimply fweet
Far echoed from each evening fold.

II.

'Twas in the pride of WILLIAM's * Days,
When Scotland's honours flourished ftill,
That Moray's Earl, with mighty fway,
Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store
The fairest 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 waves of Gold round India's throne,
All in her fhining 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 fail'd,
Paid with a cold but courteous fmile,

"Ah! woe to thee, young Nithifdale,
"That o'er thy cheek thofe roses stray'd,
"Thy breath, the violet of the vale,

Thy voice, the mufic of the fhade!

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* William the Lyon, King of Scotland.

The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithifdale, and afterwards to the Earl Barnard, was esteemed one of the fineft women in Europe, infomuch that she had several fuitors and admirers from Foreign Courts.

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"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love "Alone to thy foft tale would yield! "For foon those gentle arms fhall prove "The conflict of a ruder field.”

'Twas thus a wayward fifter spoke,
And caft a rueful glance behind,
As from her dimwood glen fhe broke,
And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanish'd—more unmov'd
Than Moray's rocks, when forms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen lov'd

With aught that fear, or fate suggest.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise
The foul above a vulgar state;
Th' unconquer'd banners he difplays
Controul our fears, and fix our fate.

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'Twas when, on summer's foftest 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 ftill,
And the wave flept against the fhore,
And the fun funk beneath the hill,

Left his laft fmile on Lemmermore *.

Led by thofe waking dreams of thought
That warm the young unpractis'd breaft,
Her wonted bower fweet Ellen fought,

And Carron murmur'd near, and footh'd her into reft.

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

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IV.

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 powerlefs chains;

'Tis told and I believe the tale,

At this foft hour the fprite was there, And fpread with fairer flowers the vale, And fill'd with fweeter 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 fhores
Had lent their glories here to glow,
Or yielded here their fhining ftores.

All round a poplar's trembling arms
The wild rofe wound her damask flower;
The woodbine lent her spicy charms,

That loves to weave the lover's bower.

The afh that courts the mountain-air,
In all her painted blooms array'd,
The wilding's bloffom blufhing 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 fky woven veft,

Was all the fairy ground befpread.

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