Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay
May not thy gentle life prolong:
See'st thou yon nightingale a prey?
The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song?
His little heart is large with love:

He sweetly hails his evening star,
And fate's more pointed arrows move,
Insidious, from his eye afar.

Ꭲ,

he shepherdess, whose kindly care

Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath, Must now their silent mansions share, Whom time leads calmly down to death. "O tell me, parent if thou art,

What is this lovely picture dear? Why wounds its mournful eye my heart? Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear >" "Ah! youth! to leave thee loth am I, Tho' I be not thy parent dear; And would'st thou wish, or ere I die, The story of thy birth to hear?

But it will make thee much bewail,

And it will make thy fair eye swell :"She said, and told the woesome tale,

As sooth as sheperdess might tell.

The heart, that sorrow doom'd to share,
Has worn the frequent seal of woe,

Its sad impressions learns to bear,

And finds full oft its ruin slow.

But when that seal is first imprest,
When the young heart its pain shall try,
From the soft, yielding, trembling breast,
Oft seems the startled soul to fly:
Yet fled not Owen's-wild amaze

In paleness cloth'd, and lifted hands,
And horrour's dread, unmeaning gaze,
Mark the poor statue, as it stands.
The simple guardian of his life

Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But when she saw his tearless strife, Silent, she lent him one, and died. "No, I am not a shepherd's boy,"

Awaking from his dream, he said: "Ah, where is now the promis'd joy Of this?-for ever, ever fled ! "O picture dear!-for her lov'd sake How fondly could my heart bewail! My friendly shepherdess, O wake,

And tell me more of this sad tale: "O tell me more of this sad taleNo; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep! And I will go to Lothian's vale,

And more than all her waters weep." Owen to Lothian's vale is fled

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear"O! art thou there," the full heart said, "O art thou there, my parent dear ?"

Yes, she is there; from idle state

Oft has she stole her hour to weep;
Think how she 'by thy cradle sate,'
And how she fondly saw thee sleep'.'
Now tries his trembling hand to frame
Full many a tender line of love;
And still he blots the parent's name,
For that, he fears, might fatal prove.
O'er a fair fountain's smiling side
Reclin'd a dim tower, clad with moss,
Where every bird was wont to bide,

That languish'd for its partner's loss.
This scene he chose, this scene assign'd
A parent's first embrace to wait,
And many a soft fear fill'd his mind,
Anxious for his fond letter's fate.

The hand that bore those lines of love,
The well-informing bracelet bore-
Ah! may they not unprosperous prove!
Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!
"She comes not ;-can she then delay!"
Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear-
"Whatever filial love could say,

To her I said, and call'd her dear."
"She comes-Oh! no-encircled round
'Tis some rude chief with many a spear,
My hapless tale that earl has found-

Ah me! my heart !-for her Ifear."
His tender tale that earl had read,

Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye,
His dark brow wears a cloud of red,
In rage he deems a rival nigh.
'Tis o'er-those locks that way'd in gold,
That way'd adown those cheeks so fair,
Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,
Hang from the sever'd head in air!
That streaming head he joys to bear

In horrid guise to Lothian's halls;
Bids his grim ruffians place it there,
Erect upon the frowning walls.

The fatal tokens forth he drew

"Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale ?" The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew,

And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. The trembling victim straight he led, Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er : He pointed to the ghastly head

She saw-and sunk to rise no more.

See the ancient Scottish ballad, called Gill Morrice.

Her heart with silent horrour shook; With sighs she sought her lonely cell: To the dim light she cast one look;

And bade once more the world farewell.

FABLE II.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
THERE are that love the shades of life,
And shun the splendid walks of fame;
There are that hold it rueful strife

To risk ambition's losing game;
That far from Envy's lurid eye

The fairest fruits of genius rear,
Content to see them bloom and die,

In Friendship's small but kindly sphere.
Than vainer flowers tho' sweeter far,
The evening Primrose shuns the day;
Blooms only to the western star,

And loves its solitary ray.

In Eden's vale an aged bind,

At the dim twilight's closing hour,
On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd,
With wonder view'd the opening flower.
"Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,"

In pity's simple thought he cries, "Thy bosom must not feel the glow Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. "Nor thee, the vagrants of the field, The hamlet's little train behold; Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,

When thine the falling shades unfold.
"Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds,
When love has fill'd his heart with cares,
For flowers he rifles all the meads,

For waking flowers-but thine forbears.
"Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom
On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath:
Let smiling suns those gems illume!

Fair flower, to live unseen is death." Soft as the voice of vernal gales

That o'er the bending meadow blow, Or streams that steal thro' even vales, And murmur that they move so slow: Deep in her unfrequented bower,

Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain; The bird of eve approv'd her flower,

And answered thus the anxious swain.

"Live unseen!

By moonlight shades, in valleys green,
Lovely flower, we'll live unseen.
Of our pleasures deem not lightly,
Laughing Day may look more sprightly,

But I love the modest mien,

Still I love the modest mien

Gliding o'er thy yielding mind,
Leave sweet serenity behind,
While all disarm'd, the cares of day
Steal thro' the falling gloom away?
Love to think thy lot was laid
In this undistinguish'd shade.
Far from the world's infectious view,
Thy little virtues safely blew.

Go, and in day's more dangerous hour,
Guard thy emblematic flower."

FABLE III.

THE LAUREL AND THE REED. THE reed that once the shepherd blew On old Cephisus' hallow'd side, To Sylla's cruel bow apply'd,

Its inoffensive master slew.

Stay, bloody soldier, stay thy hand,
Nor take the shepherd's gentle breath:
Thy rage let innocence withstand;

Let music soothe the thirst of death.
He frown'd-he bade the arrow fly-
The arrow smote the tuneful swain;
No more its tone his lip shall try,

Nor wake its vocal soul again. Cephisus, from his sedgy urn,

With woe beheld the sanguine deed; He mourn'd, and, as they heard him mourn, Assenting sigh'd each trembling reed.

"Fair offspring of my waves," he cried; "That bind my brows, my banks adorn, Pride of the plains, the river's pride,

For music, peace, and beauty born! "Ah! what, unheedful have we done?

What demons here in death delight? } What fiends that curse the social Sun? What furies of infernal night ?

"See, see my peaceful shepherds bleed! Each heart in harmony that vy'd, Smote by its own melodious reed,

Lies cold, along my blushing side. "Back to your urn, my waters, fly;

Or find in earth some secret way;
For horrour dims yon conscious sky,
And Hell has issu'd into day."
Thro' Delphi's holy depth of shade
The sympathetic sorrows ran;
While in his dim and mournful glade
The Genius of her groves began:
"In vain Cephisus sighs to save
The swain that loves his watry mead,
And weeps to see his reddening wave,
And mourns for his perverted reed:

queen.

"Didst thou, shepherd, never find,

Pleasure is of pensive kind?

Hast thy cottage never known
That she loves to live alone?
Dost thou not at evening hour
Feel some soft and secret power,

Must I with equal grief bewail, While desolation sternly roves,

And bids the sanguine hand assail.

I The reeds on the banks of the Cephisus, of which the shepherds made their pipes, Sylla's soldiers used for arrows.

"God of the genial stream, behold
My laurel shades of leaves so bare!
Those leaves no poet's brows enfold,

Nor bind Apollo's golden hair.
Like thy fair offspring, misapply'd,
Far other purpose they supply;
The murderer's burning cheek to hide,
And on his frownful temples die.

"Yet deem not these of Pluto's race,
Whom wounded Nature sues in vain ;
Pluto disclaims the dire disgrace,
And cries, indignant, They are men."

FABLE IV.

THE GARDEN ROSE AND THE
WILD ROSE.

"As Dee, whose current, free from stain,
Glides fair o'er Merioneth's plain,
By mountains forc'd his way to steer,
Along the lake of Pimble Mere,
Darts swiftly thro' the stagnaut mass,
His waters trembling as they pass,
And leads his lucid waves below,
Unmix'd, unsullied as they flow-
So clear thro' life's tumultuous tide,
So free could Thought and Fancy glide;
Could Hope as sprightly hold her course,
As first she left her native source,
Unsought in her romantic cell
The keeper of her dreams might dwell.
"But ab! they will not, will not last-
When life's first fairy stage is past,
The glowing hand of Hope is cold;
And Fancy lives not to be old.
Darker, and darker all before;
We turn the former prospect o'er;
And find in Memory's faithful eye
Our little stock of pleasures lie.

"Come, then; thy kind recesses ope!
Fair keeper of the dreams of Hope!
Come with thy visionary train,
And bring my morning scenes again!
To Enon's wild and silent shade,
Where oft my lonely youth was laid;
What time the woodland Genius came,
And touch'd me with his holy flame.-

"Or, where the hermit, Bela, leads.
Her waves thro' solitary meads;
And only feeds the desert-flower,
Where once she sooth'd my slumbering hour:
Or rous'a by Stainmore's wintry sky,
She wearies Echo with her cry;
And oft, what storms her bosom tear,
Her deeply-wounded banks declare.-
"Where Eden's fairer waters flow,
By Milton's bower, or Osty's brow,
Or Brockley's alder-shaded cave,
Or, winding round the Druid's grave,
Silently glide, with pious fear
To sound his holy slumbers near.—

"To these fair scenes of Fancy's reign,
O Memory! bear me once again.
For, when life's varied scenes are past,
'Tis simple Nature charms at last."

So marvell'd much in Enon's shade
The flowers that all uncultur'd grew,
When there the splendid Rose display'd
Her swelling breast and shining hue.
Yet one, that oft adorn'd the place

Where now her gaudy rival reign'd,
Of simpler bloom, but kindred race,

The pensive Eglantine complain’d.— · "Mistaken youth," with sighs she said,

"From Nature and from me to stray!
The bard, by splendid forms betray'd,
No more shall frame the purer lay.
"Luxuriant, like the flaunting Rose,
And gay the brilliant strains may be,
But far, in beauty, far from those,
That flow'd to Nature and to me."
The poet felt, with fond surprise,

The truths the sylvan critic told;

And, "Though this courtly Rose," he cries, "Is gay, is beauteous to behold;

"Yet, lovely flower, I find in thee

Wild sweetness which no words express,

And charms in thy simplicity,

That dwell not in the pride of dress."

SHEPHERD, if near thy artless breast
The god of fond desires repair;
Implore him for a gentle guest,

Implore him with unwearied prayer.
Should beauty's soul-enchanting smile,
Love-kindling looks, and features gay,
Should these thy wandering eye beguile,
And steal thy wareless heart away;
That heart shall soon with sorrow swell,
And soon the erring eye deplore,
If in the beauteous bosom dwell
No gentle virtue's genial store.
Far from his hive one summer-day,
A young and yet unpractis'd bee,
Borne on his tender wings away,
Went forth the flowery world to see.

The morn, the noon in play he pass'd,
But when the shades of evening came,
No parent brought the due repast,

And faintness seiz'd his little frame.
By nature urg'd, by instinct led,

The bosom of a flower he sought,
Where streams mourn'd round a mossy bed,
And violets all the bank enwrought.
Of kindred race, but brighter dies,
On that fair bank a Pansy grew,
That borrow'd from indulgent skies
A velvet shade and purple hue.

The tints that stream'd with glossy gold,
The velvet shade, the purple hue,
The stranger wonder'd to behold,
And to its bounteous bosom flew.
Not fonder haste the lover speeds,

At evening's fall, his fair to meet;
When o'er the hardly-bending meads
He springs on more than mortal feet.
Nor glows his eyes with brighter glee,

When stealing near her orient breast, Than felt the fond enamour'd bee,

When first the golden bloom he prest. Ah! pity much his youth untry'd,

His heart in beauty's magic spell ! So never passion thee betide,

But where the genial virtues dwell. In vain he seeks those virtnes there; No soul-sustaining charms abound : No honey'd sweetness to repair

The languid waste of life is found.

An aged bee, whose labours led

Thro' those fair springs, and meads of gold, His feeble wing, his drooping head

Beheld, and pitied to behold.
"Fly, fond adventurer, fly. the art

That courts thine eye with fair attire;
Who smiles to win the heedless heart,
Will smile to see that heart expire.
"This modest flower of humbler hue,
That boasts no depth of glowing dyes,
Array'd in unbespangled blue,

The simple clothing of the skies-
"This flower, with balmy sweetness blest,
May yet thy languid life renew:"
He said, and to the Violet's breast
The little vagrant faintly flew.

FABLE VI.

In all the pomp of eastern state,
In all the eastern glory gay,
He bade, with native pride elate,

Each flower of humbler birth obey.
O, that the child unborn might hear,
Nor hold it strange in distant time,
That freedom e'en to flowers was dear,
To flowers that bloom'd in Britain's clime!
Through purple meads, and spicy gales,
Where Strymon's' silver waters play,
While far from hence their goddess dwells,
She rules with delegated sway.
That sway the Crown Imperial sought,
With high demand and haughty mien:
But equal claim a rival brought,

A rival call'd the Meadow's Queen. "In climes of orient glory born,

Where beauty first and empire grew; Where first unfolds the golden morn, Where richer falls the fragrant dew: "In light's ethereal beauty drest, Behold," he cried, "the favour'd flower, Which Flora's high commands invest With ensigns of imperial power! "Where prostrate vales, and blushing meads, And bending mountains own his sway, While Persia's lord his empire leads, And bids the trembling world obey; "While blood bedews the straining bow, And conquest rends the scatter'd air, 'Tis mine to bind the victor's brow, And reign in envy'd glory there. "Then lowly bow, ye British flowers! Confess your monarch's mighty sway, And own the only glory yours,

When fear flies trembling to obey."
He said, and sudden o'er the plain,

From flower to flower a murmur ran,
With modest air, and milder strain,
When thus the Meadow's Queen began -
"If vain of birth, of glory vain,
Or fond to bear a regal name,
The pride of folly brings disdain,
And bids me urge a tyrant's claim :
"If war my peaceful realms assail,
And then, unmov'd by pity's call,
I smile to see the bleeding vale,
Or feel one joy in Nature's fall,
"Then may each justly vengeful flower
Pursue her queen with gen'rous strife,
Nor leave the hand of lawless power
Such compass on the scale of life.
"One simple firtue all my pride!

The wish that flies to mis'ry's aid;
The balm that stops the crimson tide,

And heals the wounds that war has made."

Their free consent by zephyrs borne,

The flowers their Meadow's Queen obey;
And fairer blushes crown'd the morn,
And sweeter fragrance fill'd the day.

'The Ionian Strymon.

2 The property of that flower.