THERE is something romantic in the story of the following Poem; but the Author has his reasons for believing that there is something likewise authentic. On the simple circumstances of the ancient narrative, from which he first borrowed his idea, those reasons are principally founded; and they are supported by others, with which, in a work of this kind, to trouble his readers would be superfluous.
On Carron's side the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue?
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,
Why stream your eyes with Pity's dew?
'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood
That purple grows the primrose pale;
That Pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.
The evening-star sate in his eye,
The sun his golden tresses gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,
To him who rests in yonder grave!
Beneath no high, historic stone,
Though nobly born, is Owen laid,
Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,
He sleeps beneath the waving shade.
There many a flowery race hath sprung,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his simple dirge ye sung;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!
Yet still, when May with fragrant feet
Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold,
That dirge I hear so simply sweet
Far echoed from each evening fold.
'Twas in the pride of William's* day,
When Scotland's honours flourish'd still,
That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,
Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill :
And far, for him, their fruitful store
The fairer plains of Carron spread;
In fortune rich, in offspring poor,
An only daughter crown'd his bed.
Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows
In waves of gold round India's throne,
All in her shining breast that glows,
To Ellen'st charms, were earth and stone.
For her the youth of Scotland sigh❜d,
The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave,
And smoother Italy applied,
And many an English baron brave.
In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
No foreign loves her breast beguile,
And England's honest valour fail'd,
Paid with a cold, but courteous smile.
• William the Lion, King of Scotland.
+ The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithisdale, and afterwards to the Earl Barnard, was esteemed one of the finest women in Europe, insomuch that she had several suitors and admirers from foreign
Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale,
That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd; Thy breath, the violet of the vale,
Thy voice, the music of the shade!
"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love
Alone to thy soft tale would yield!
For soon those gentle arms shall
The conflict of a ruder field.'
"T'was thus a wayward sister spoke,
And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dim wood-glen she broke,
And mounted on the moaning wind.
She spoke and vanish'd-more unmov'd
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen lov'd
With aught that fear, or fate suggest.
For Love, methinks, nath power to raise
The soul beyond a vulgar state;
The' unconquer'd banners he displays
Control our fears, and fix our fate.
'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 wave slept against the shore,
And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,
Left his last smile on Lemmermore:*
A chain of mountains running through Scotland from east to west.
Led by those waking dreams of thought
That warm the young unpractis'd breast,
Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought,
And Carron murmur'd near, and soothed her into
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 fram'd, (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 fram'd with magic hand,
As well that wizard bard hath wove,
In scenes where fair Armida's wand
Wav'd all the witcheries of love.
Yet it was 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,
Combin'd 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.
But, who is he, whose locks so fair
Adown his manly shoulders flow?
Beside him lies the hunter's spear,
Beside him sleep's 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.
Hast thou not found at early dawn
Some soft ideas melt away,
If o'er sweet vale, or flowery 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 pictur'd view,
Seen in some vision counted vain,
Has struck thy wondering eye anew,
And brought the long-lost dream again.
With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear,
With locks adown his shoulders 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,
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