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VII.

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?

Thou haft 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 Goddefs of thefe 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.

VIII.

O love! within those golden vales,
Thofe genial airs where thou waft born,
Where nature liftening 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 fhould grim rage be nigh,
And dark diftruft with changeful face,
And Jealousy's reverted eye

Be near thy fair thy favour'd place?

IX.

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 Nithisdale !

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 swift purfue?
No-that would all his hopes deftroy?

Moray would vanish from his view,
And rob him of a Mifer's joy.

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Unfeen to Moray's Halls he hies-
He calls his flaves, his ruffian band,
And hate to yonder groves,' He cries,
· And ambush'd lie by Carron's strand,'

• 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 ftray.

• 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!

X.

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the wave flept against the fhore.
And the fun, funk beneath the hill,

Left his laft fmile on Lemmermore;
F

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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 the frames : • Can lovers brook fuch long delay?

Lovers that boat of ardent flames!'

He comes not-weary with the chace,
Soft lumber 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!

XI.

Ellen is not in princely bower,
She's not in Moray's fplendid train;
Their mistress dear at midnight hour,
Her weeping maidens feck in vain.

Her pillow fwells not deep with down,
For her no balms their fweets exhale :
Her limbs ar 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 early 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 unfolds What 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.

XII.

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!

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