She spoke and vanish'd-more unmoved For love, methinks, hath power to raise 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, Left his last smile on Lammermore; IV. There is some kind and courtly sprite '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; 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, 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 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, 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. To Carron's banks his fate consign'd; VI. Led by the golden star of love, Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow, '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, So Ellen stood-less power to move And wind his woodland chase again. 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 When, waked, it fix'd on Ellen near. Silent they gazed-that silence broke : O let me in thy service bide! And part the sprays that vex thy way. For thee"-"O stranger, cease," she said, VIII. 'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit, The fond idea that confined O love! within those golden vales, Leans on the rosy breast of morn; 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 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 ! 'Tis she (O powers of vengeance!) kind. 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 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 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; On that fair cheek, that flowing hair, 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 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," Was e'er so mild, so mild as he." "His head is on the wood-moss laid; At evening find the dew-drop dear, 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! XIV. On melancholy's silent urn A softer shade of sorrow falls, "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, XV. And now two longsome years are past Yet has she left one object dear, 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 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, 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, Thy lamp with heaven's own splendour bright. But of no radiant star of love, O Hymen! smile on thy fair rite, 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; 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? A silken vest like mine so green I know it is no shepherd's art This bracelet bright that binds my arm- And O thou silent picture fair, XXII. Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song? 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; But it will make thee much bewail, 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- 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? |