PRECEPTS OF CONJUGAL HAPPI-
NESS.

FRIEND, sister, partner of that gentle heart
Where my soul lives, and holds her dearest part;
While love's soft raptures these gay hours em-
ploy,

And Time puts on the yellow robe of Joy;
Will you, Maria, mark with patient ear
The moral Muse, nor deem her song severe ?
Through the long course of life's unclouded
day,

Where sweetContentment smiles on Virtue's way;
Where Fancy opes her ever-varying views,
And Hope strews flowers, and leads you as she
strews;

May each fair pleasure court thy favour'd breast,
By truth protected, and by love caress'd!

So Friendship vows, nor shall her vows be vain;
For every pleasure comes in Virtue's train;
Each charm that tender sympathies impart,
The glow of soul, the transports of the heart,
Sweet meanings, that in silent truth convey
Mind into mind, and steal the soul away;
These gifts, O Virtue, these are all thy own;
Lost to the vicious, to the vain unknown!
Yet blest with these, and happier charms than
these,

By Nature form'd, by genius taught to please,
E'en you, to prove that mortal gifts are vain,
Must yield your human sacrifice to pain;
The wizard Care shall dim those brilliant eyes,
Smite the fair urns, and bid the waters rise.
With mind unbroke that darker hour to bear,
Nor, once his captive, drag the chains of Care,
Hope's radiant sun-shine o'er the scene to pour,
Nor future joys in present ills devour,
These arts your philosophic friend may show,
Too well experienced in the school of woe.

In some sad hour, by transient grief opprest,
Ah! let not vain reflection wound your breast;
For Memory then, to happier objects blind,
Though once the friend, the traitor of the mind,
Life's varied sorrows studious to explore,
Turns the sad volume of its sufferings o'er.

Still to the distant prospect stretch your eye, Pass the dim cloud,and view the brightening sky, On Hope's kind wing, more genial climes survey, Let Fancy join, but Reason guide your way; For Fancy, still to tender woes inclin'd May sooth the heart, but misdirects the mind. The source of half our anguish, halfour tears, Is the wrong conduct of our hopes and fears;

Like ill-train'd children,still their treatment such,
Restrain'd too rashly, or indulg'd too much.
Hence Hope, projecting more than life can give,
Would live with angels, or refuse to live;
Hence spleen-ey'd Fear, o'er-acting Caution's
part,

Betrays those succours Reason lends the heart.

Yet these, submitted to fair Truth's coutroul, These tyrants are the servants of the soul; Through vales of peace the dove-like Hope shall stray

And bear at eve her olive branch away, ́
In every scene some distant charm descry,
And hold it forward to the brightening eye;
While watchful Fear, if Fortitude maintain
Her trembling steps, shall ward the distant pain.
Should erring Nature casual faults disclose,
Wound not the breast that harbours your repose:
For every grief that breast from you shall prove,
Is one link broken in the chain of love.
Soon, with their objects, other woes are past,
But pains from those we love are pains that last.
Though faults or follies from reproach may fly,
Yet in its shade the tender passions die.

Love, like the flower that courts the Sun's
kind ray,

Will flourish only in the smiles of day;
Distrust's cold air the generous plant annoys,
And one chill blight of dire contempt destroys.
O shun, my friend, avoid that dangerous coast,
Where peace expires; and fair affection's lost;
By wit, by grief, by anger arg'd, forbear
The speech contemptuous, and the scornful air.

If heart-felt quiet, thoughts unmix'd with pain, While Peace weaves flowers o'er Hymen's golden chain,

If tranquil days, if hours of smiling ease,

The sense of pleasure, and the power to please,
If charms like these deserve your serious care,
Of one dark foe, one dangerous foe beware!
Like Hecla's mountain, while his heart's in flame,
His aspect's cold,-and Jealousy's his name.
His hideous birth his wild disorders prove,
Begot by Hatred on despairing Love!
Her throes in rage the frantic mother bore,
And the fell sire with angry curses tore
His sable hair.-Distrust beholding smil'd,
And lov'd her image in her future child.
With cruel care, industrious to impart
Each painful sense, each soul-tormenting art,
To Doubt's dim shrine her hapless charge she led,
Where never sleep reliev'd the burning head,
Where never grateful fancy sooth'd suspense,
Or the sweet charm of easy confidence.
Hence fears eternal, ever-restless care,
And all the dire associates of despair.
Hence all the woes he found that peace destroy,
And dash with pain the sparkling stream of joy.
When love's warm breast, from rapture's

trembling height,

Falls to the temperate measures of delight;
When calm delight to easy friendship turns,
Grieve not that Hymen's torch more gently burns,
Unerring Nature, in each purpose kind,
Forbids long transports to usurp the mind:
For, oft dissolv'd in joy's oppressive ray,
Soon would the finer faculties decay.

True tender love one even tenour keeps; 'Tis reason's flame,and burns when passion sleeps,

*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,

Coinbin'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 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. 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,
Hast 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,

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.
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,
Reclin'd in 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 imag'd on her breast,
That lives still pictur'd 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-lov'd 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, Seiz'd all her soul-she came not near, She came not near that fated grove. She strives to fly-from wizzard's wand As well might powerless captive flyThe new-cropt flower falls from her handAh! fall not with that flower to die! 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, wak'd, it fix'd on Ellen near. Silent they gaz'd-that silence broke; "Hail goddess of these groves," he cry'd, "O let me wear thy gentle yoke!

O let me in thy service bide! "For thee I'll climb the mountain steep, Unwearied chase the destin'd 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. 'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit, The fond idea that confin'd 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?

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 reclin'd 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 groves, With 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 migh,

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 wondering still how they could part.
Three arrows pierc'd 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 sleep-

He lies beneath yon poplar pale;
Ah! could we marvel ye should weep,
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!
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;
Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way

Along the fairy-featur'd 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 night,Where 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 tread-
He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale-
Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled,
Thy heart will far forego my tale!
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 thro' the gloom a transient ray, And leaves the world once more to night; Returning life illumes her eye,

And slow its languid orb unfoldsWhat 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.

The morn is on the mountains spread,

The wood-lark 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 retir'd ;With haste he frames the lover's tomb, For his is quite, is quite expir'd! "O hide me in my 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 more Some pillow to that gentle head. "Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain, Thou know'st the sun-rise o'er the seaBut 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 deepSweet sings the redbreast o'er the shadeWhy, gentle lady, would you weep?” As flowers that fade in burning day,

At evening find the dew-drop dear, But fiercer feel the noon-tide 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, wandering 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

Can not be worth the wish of woe.

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 and morn,

The rosemary's pale bough to bring-
Thou know'st where I was found forlorn-
Where thou hast heard the red breast sing.
"Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,
Or aid thy sheperdess's care,
For I will share her humble toil,

And I her friendly roof will share. "
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.

But ah! no more his infant sleep

Closes beneath a mother's smile,
Who, only when it clos'd, 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.
Does Nature bear a tyrant's breast?

Is she the friend of stern Controul ?
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 ?
Gav'st 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 lov'd hearts deny To act their fair, their proper part? 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 bis 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 if 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.

And now has Time's slow wandering wing

Borne many a year unmark'd with speed-
Where 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 sun-beam bright
That plays on Carron's breast he can,
Reason has lent her quivering light,
And shown the chequer'd field of man.
As the first human heir of Earth
With pensive eye himself survey'd,
And, all unconscious of his birth,

Sate 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 fram'd this simple song :
"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 sheperd's farm;
It only would that arm annoy,
If I were but a shepherd's boy.
"And O thou silent picture fair,
That lov'st to smile upon me there,
O say, and fill my heart with joy,
That I am not a shepherd's boy"