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 fly-
The new-cropt flower falls from her hand-
Ah! 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 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 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 forlorn

Where 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:

XXI.

"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?

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 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 sat,"

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.

XXVII.

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side
Reclined 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 boreAh! may they not unprosperous prove! Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!

XXVIII.

"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 I fear."
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.

XXIX.

'Tis o'er-those locks that waved in gold,
That waved adown those cheeks so fair,
Wreathed 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 pictured 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.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

936.-A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS

MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way,
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay ;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of fancy and of art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.
Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithesome we were wont to rove,
By verdant hill or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honied oak rejoice,
And aged elms, with awful bend,
In long cathedral walks extend !
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,

How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,

And years unheeded roll'd along :
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,

These scenes must charm me now no more;
Lost to the fields, and torn from you-
Farewell!-a long, a last adieu.
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw:
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way!
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose Revelry, and Riot bold,
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you;
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!
Shakspere, no more thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's

ease,

Nor Milton's mighty self must please:
Instead of these, a formal band

In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore,

And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.
There, in a winding close retreat,
Is justice doom'd to fix her seat;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe ;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queen, is more admired.

Oh let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverend awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where, mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end;
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades and regulates the whole.
Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!
Thus, though my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe,
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour and my conscience clear.
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend.

Sir William Blackstone.-
Born 1723, Died 1780.

937.-O, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME.

O, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? Nae langer drest in silken sheen,

Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa,
Wilt thou not cast a look behind?
Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw,
Nor shrink before the winter wind?
O can that soft and gentle mien

Severest hardships learn to bear,
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?