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 Nithisdale.
She'll meet him foon-for at her fight Swift as the mountain deer he sped; 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 steal on his repose.
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 fhed,
And the chill mountain's carly air
Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head.
As the foft ftar 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 unfoldsWhat are thofe bloody arrows nigh? Sure, bloody arrows fhe 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 fpread,
The woodlark thrills his liquid ftrain-
Can morn's sweet 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 thefe 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 halte 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 the faid;
I'll bind thy crook with many a flower;
With many a sofy 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't the fun rife o'er the fea--
But Oh! no lamb in all thy train
Was e'er fo 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 fhade--
Why, gentle lady, would you weep?"
As flowers that fade in burning day,
At evening find the dew-drop dear,
But fiercer feel the noon-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.
< These jewels all unmeet for me,
Shalt thou,' fhe faid, 'good thepherd take ; These 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 bringThou know't where I was found forlornWhere thou haft heard the redbreaft fing.
Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,
• Or aid thy fhepherdefs's care,
For I will fhare her humble toil,
• And I her friendly roof will share.'
And now two longfome years are past
In luxury of lonely pain
The lovely mourner, found at laft,
To Moray's Halls is borne again.
Yet has she left one object dear,
That wears Love's funny eye of joy
Is Nithifdale. reviving here?
Or is it but a fhepherd's boy?
By Carron's fide a fhepherd's boy,
He binds his vale-flowers with the reed;
He wears love's funny eye of joy,
And birth he little feems to heed.
But ah! no more his infant fleep
Clofes beneath a mother's fmile,
Who, only when it clos'd would weep,
And yield to tender woe the while.
No more, with fond attention dear,
She feeks th' unfpoken with to find;
No more fhall fhe, with pleasure's tear,
See the foul waxing into mind.
Does nature bear a tyrant's Breast?
Is fhe the friend of ftern controul?
Wears the the defpot's purple veft;
Or fetters fhe the free born foul?
Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim,
In chains thy children's breasts to bind?
Gav't thou the promethean flame?
The incommunicable mind?
Thy offspring are great Nature's,-free,
And of her fair dominion heirs ;
Each privilege fhe gives to thee;
Know, that each privilege is theirs.
They have thy feature, wear thine eye,
Perhaps fome feelings of thy heart;
And wilt thou their lov'd hearts deny
To act their fair, their proper part?
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