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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 pursue?

No—that would all his hopes destroy ; Moray would vanish from his view,

And rob him of a miser's joy. Unseen to Moray's halls he hies

He calls his slaves, his ruffian band, And · Haste 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 stray ; • Then ransack straight that range


groves : With hunter's spear, and vest of green, If chance, a rosy stripling roves,

Ye well can aim your arrows keen.' And now the ruffian slaves are nigh,

And Ellen takes her homeward way: Though stay'd by many a tender sigh,

She can no longer, longer stay. Pensive, against yon poplar pale,

The lover leans his gentle heart, Revolving many a tender tale,

And wondering still how they could part. Three arrows pierc'd the desert air,

Ere yet his tender dreams depart;
And one struck deep his forehead fair,

And one went through his gentle heart.
Vol. XXX.



Love's waking dream is lost in sleep

He lies beneath yon poplar pale ; Ah! could we marvel ye should weep;

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

X. When all the mountain-gales were still,

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

Left his last smile on Lemmermore ;

Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way

Along the fairy-featur'd vale :
Bright o'er his wave does Carron play,

And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale.
She'll meet him soon--for at her sight

Swift as the mountain-deer he sped: The evening shades will sink in night,

Where art thou, loitering lover, fled? 0! she will chide thy triling stay,

E’en now the soft reproach she frames : • Can lovers brook such long delay?

Lovers that boast of ardent flames!'


He comes not-weary with the chase,

Soft Slumber o'er his eyelids throws Her veil-we'll steal one dear embrace,

We'll gently steal on bis repose. This is the bower-we'll softly tread

He sleeps beneath yon poplar paleLover, 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 splendid train; Their mistress dear at midnight hour,

Her weeping maidens seek in vain. Her pillow swells not deep with down;

For her no balms their sweets exhale : Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown,

Press'd by her lovely cheek 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 soft star of orient day,

When clouds involve his rosy light, Darts through the gloom a transient ray,

And leaves the world once more to night ; Returning life illumes her eye,

And slow its languid orb unfoldsWhat are those bloody arrows nigh?

Sure, bloody arrows she beholds ! What was that form so ghastly pale,

That low beneath the poplar lay?« 'Twas some poor youth-Ah, Nithisdale !

She said, and silent sunk away.

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The morn is on the mountains spread,

The woodlark trills his liquid strain' Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead?

Give the set eye its soul again?

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A shepherd of that gentler mind

Which Nature not profusely yields, Seeks in these lonely shades to find

Some wanderer from his little fields. Aghast he stands and simple fear

O’er all his paly visage glides, * Ah me! what means this misery here?

What fate this lady fair betides ?' He bears her to his frienaly home,

When life, be finds, has but retir'd ;-
With haste 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 she said ;)
I'll bind thy crook with many a flower ;

With many a rosy wreath thy head.
"Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove,

And, if my love asleep is laid,
Oh! wake him not; but softly move

Some pillow to that gentle head. “Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd-swain,

Thou know'st the sun rise o'er the seaBut oh! no lamb in all thy train

Was e'er so mild, so mild as he.'• His head is on the wood-moss laid;

I did not wake his slumber deepSweet sings the redbreast 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 noon-tide ray,

When softend by the nightly tear ;

Returning in the flowing tear,

This lovely flower, more sweet than they, Found her fair soul, and, wandering near,

The stranger, Reason, cross'd her way.

Found her fair soul-Ah! so to find

Was but more dreadful grief to know ! Ah! sure the privilege of mind

Can not be worth the wish of woe.


On Melancholy's silent urn

A softer shade of sorrow falls, But Ellen can no more return,

No more return to Moray's halls.

Beneath the low and lonely shade

The slow-consuming hour she'll weep, Till Nature seeks her last-left aid,

In the sad, sumbrous arms of sleep.

* These jewels, all unmeet for me,

Shalt thou, (she said) good shepherd, take ; These gems will purchase gold for thee,

And these be thine for Ellen's sake.

So, fail thou not, at eve and morn,

The rosemary's pale bough to bringThou know'st where I was found forlorn

Where thou has heard the redbreast sing.

* Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,

Or aid tły shepherdess's care,
For I will share her humble toil,
And I her friendly roof will share.'

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