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She spoke and vanish'd-more unmoved
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen loved,
With aught that fear or fate suggest.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise
The soul beyond a vulgar state;
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays
Control our fears and fix our fate.

But who is he, whose locks so fair Adown his manly shoulders flow? Beside him lies the hunter's spear, Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow. He bends to Ellen-(gentle sprite! Thy sweet seductive arts forbear), He courts her arms with fond delight, And instant vanishes in air.

III.

'Twas when, on summer's softest eve, Of clouds that wander'd west away, Twilight with gentle hand did weave

Her fairy robe of night and day;

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the waves slept against the shore,
And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lammermore;
Led by those waking dreams of thought
That warm the young unpractised breast,
Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought,
And Carron murmur'd near, and soothed her
into rest.

IV.

There is some kind and courtly sprite
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
Throws sunshine on the mask of night,
And smiles at slumber's powerless chains;

'Tis told, and I believe the tale,

At this soft hour that sprite was there, And spread with fairer flowers the vale, And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air.

A bower he framed (for he could frame What long might weary mortal wight: Swift as the lightning's rapid flame

Darts on the unsuspecting sight).

Such bower he framed with magic hand, As well that wizard bard hath wove, In scenes where fair Armida's wand Waved all the witcheries of love:

Yet was it wrought in simple show;
Nor Indian mines nor orient shores
Had lent their glories here to glow,

Or yielded here their shining stores.

All round a poplar's trembling arms

The wild rose wound her damask flower; The woodbine lent her spicy charms,

That loves to weave the lover's bower.

The ash, that courts the mountain-air,
In all her painted blooms array'd,
The wilding's blossom blushing fair,

Combined to form the flowery shade.

With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast, The cowslip's sweet, reclining head,

The violet of sky-woven vest,

Was all the fairy ground bespread.

V.

Hast thou not found at early dawn
Some soft ideas melt away,

If o'er sweet vale, or flow'ry lawn,

The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray?

Hast thou not some fair object seen,

And, when the fleeting form was past,
Still on thy memory found its mien,
And felt the fond idea last?

Thou hast

and oft the pictured view, Seen in some vision counted vain, Has struck thy wond'ring eye anew,

And brought the long-lost dream again. With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear, With locks adown his shoulder spread, Young Nithisdale is ranging near

He's ranging near yon mountain's head.
Scarce had one pale moon pass'd away,
And fill'd her silver urn again,
When in the devious chase to stray,
Afar from all his woodland train,

To Carron's banks his fate consign'd;
And, all to shun the fervid hour,
He sought some friendly shade to find,
And found the visionary bower.

VI.

Led by the golden star of love,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way,
And in the deep defending grove
Sought refuge from the fervid day—
Oh-who is he whose ringlets fair

Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow,
Reclined to rest-whose sunny hair
Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?

'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest,

(Ah me! that sprites can fate control!) That lives still imaged on her breast, That lives still pictured in her soul.

As when some gentle spirit fled

From earth to breathe Elysian air, And, in the train whom we call dead, Perceives its long-loved partner there;

Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er,
Resistless, o'er its airy frame,
To find its future fate restore
The object of its former flame :

So Ellen stood-less power to move
Had he, who, bound in slumber's chain,
Seem'd hap'ly o'er his hills to rove,

And wind his woodland chase again.
She stood, but trembled-mingled fear,
And fond delight, and melting love,
Seized all her soul; she came not near,
She came not near that fated grove.
She strives to fly-from wizard's wand

As well might powerless captive flyThe new-cropt flower falls from her handAh! fall not with that flower to die!

VII.

Hast thou not seen some azure gleam
Smile in the morning's orient eye,
And skirt the reddening cloud's soft beam
What time the sun was hasting nigh?
Thou hast-and thou canst fancy well
As any Muse that meets thine ear,
The soul-set eye of Nithisdale,

When, waked, it fix'd on Ellen near.

Silent they gazed-that silence broke :
"Hail, goddess of these groves (he cried).
O let me wear thy gentle yoke!

O let me in thy service bide!
For thee I'll climb the mountains steep,
Unwearied chase the destined prey;
For thee I'll pierce the wild wood deep,

And part the sprays that vex thy way.

For thee"-"O stranger, cease," she said,
And swift away, like Daphne, flew;
But Daphne's flight was not delay'd
By aught that to her bosom grew.

VIII.

'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit,

The fond idea that confined
Fair Ellen's steps, and bless'd his suit,
Who was not far, not far behind.

O love! within those golden vales,
Those genial airs where thou wast born,
Where nature, listening thy soft tales,

Leans on the rosy breast of morn;
Where the sweet smiles, the graces dwell,
And tender sighs the heart remove,
In silent eloquence to tell

Thy tale, O soul-subduing love! Ah! wherefore should grim rage be nigh, And dark distrust, 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 absent hour He watch'd with all a miser's care; The wide domain, the princely dower Made Ellen more than Ellen fair.

Ah wretch to think the liberal soul
May thus with fair affection part!
Though Lothian's vales thy sway control,
Know, Lothian is not worth one heart.

Studious he marks her absent hour,

And, winding far where Carron flows, Sudden he sees the fated bower,

And red rage on his dark brow glows.

For who is he?-'Tis Nithisdale !
And that fair form with arm reclined
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 of grovesWith 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 wond'ring still how they could part.

Three arrows pierced the desert air,

Ere yet his tender dreams depart; And one struck deep his forehead fair, And one went through his gentle heart.

Love's waking dream is lost in sleepHe 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 Lammermore;

Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way Along the fairy-featured 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 nightWhere art thou, loitering lover, fled?

O she will chide thy trifling 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 his repose.

This is the bower-we'll softly treadHe sleeps 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 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 unfolds,What 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.

XII.

The morn is on the mountains spread, The woodlark trills his liquid strainCan morn's sweet music rouse the dead? Give the set eye its soul again?

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 friendly home,

When life, he finds, has but retired :— With haste he frames the lover's tomb, For his is quite, is quite expired!

XIII.

"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 sea-
But 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 deep-
Sweet sing 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 noontide ray,

When soften'd by the nightly tear;

Returning in the flowing tear,

This lovely flower, more sweet than they, Found her fair soul, and, wand'ring 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
Cannot be worth the wish of woe!

XIV.

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 sombrous 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 or morn,

The rosemary's pale bough to bringThou know'st where I was found forlornWhere thou hast heard the redbreast sing.

Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,
Or aid thy shepherdess's care,
For I will share her humble toil,
And I her friendly roof will share."

XV.

And now two longsome years are past
In luxury of lonely pain-
The lovely mourner, found at last,
To Moray's halls is borne again.

Yet has she left one object dear,
That wears love's sunny eye of joy-
Is Nithisdale reviving here ?

Or is it but a shepherd's boy?

By Carron's side, a shepherd's boy,

He binds his vale-flowers with the reed; He wears love's sunny eye of joy,

And birth he little seems to heed.

XVI.

But ah! no more his infant sleep

Closes beneath a mother's smile, Who, only when it closed, would weep, And yield to tender woe the while.

No more, with fond attention dear,

She seeks th' unspoken wish to find; No more shall she, with pleasure's tear, See the soul waxing into mind.

XVII.

Does nature bear a tyrant's breast? Is she the friend of stern control? Wears she the despot's purple vest? Or fetters she the free-born soul?

Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim
In chains thy children's breasts to bind?
Gavest thou the Promethean flame?
The incommunicable mind?

Thy offspring are great nature's-free, And of her fair dominion heirs; Each privilege she gives to thee;

Know, that each privilege is theirs.

They have thy feature, wear thine eye, Perhaps some feelings of thy heart; And wilt thou their loved hearts deny To act their fair, their proper part?

XVIII.

The lord of Lothian's fertile vale,
Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand;
Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale
Was low laid by his ruffian band.

And Moray, with unfather'd eyes,

Fix'd on fair Lothian's fertile dale, Attends his human sacrifice,

Without the Grecian painter's veil.

O married love! thy bard shall own,
Where two congenial souls unite,
Thy golden chain inlaid with down,

Thy lamp with heaven's own splendour bright.

But of no radiant star of love,

O Hymen! smile on thy fair rite,
Thy chain a wretched weight shall prove,
Thy lamp a sad sepulchral light.

XIX.

And now has time's slow wandering wing Borne many a year unmark'd with speedWhere is the boy by Carron's spring,

Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed ?

Ah me! those flowers he binds no more;
No early charm returns again ;
The parent, nature, keeps in store
Her best joys for her little train.
No longer heed the sunbeam bright
That plays on Carron's breast he can,
Reason has lent her quiv'ring light,
And shown the chequer'd field of man.

XX.

As the first human heir of earth

With pensive eye himself survey'd, And, all unconscious of his birth, Sat thoughtful oft in Eden's shade; In pensive thought so Owen stray'd

Wild Carron's lonely woods among, And once within their greenest glade, He fondly framed his simple song:

ΧΧΙ.

"Why is this crook adorn'd with gold?
Why am I tales of ladies told?
Why does no labour me employ,
If I am but a shepherd's boy?

A silken vest like mine so green
In shepherd's hut I have not seen-
Why should I in such vesture joy,
If I am but a shepherd's boy?

I know it is no shepherd's art
His written meaning to impart―
They teach me sure an idle toy,
If I am but a shepherd's boy,

This bracelet bright that binds my arm-
It could not come from shepherd's farm;
It only would that arm annoy,
If I were but a shepherd's boy.

And O thou silent picture fair,
That lovest to smile upon me there,
O say, and fill my heart with joy,
That I am not a shepherd's boy."

XXII.

Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay
May not thy gentle life prolong :
Seest thou yon nightingale a prey?

The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song?

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The 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,

Though I be not thy parent dear;
And wouldst 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 shepherdess might tell.

XXIV.

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 zeal 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 clothed, and lifted hands, And horror'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,

XXV.

"No, I am not a shepherd's boy," Awaking from his dream, he said: "Ah, where is now the promised joy Of this for ever, ever fled!

O picture dear!-for her loved 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 tale-
No; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep!
And I will go to Lothian's vale,
And more than all her waters weep."

XXVI.

Owen to Lothian's vale is filed

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

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