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kind ray,

With Mattery, shall record : from each low view, Like ill-train'd children,still their treatment such,
Each mean connection free, her praise is fame. Restrain'd too rashly, or indulg'd too much.
O, could her hand in future times obtain

Hence Hope, projecting more than life can give, One humble garland from th' Aonian tree, Would live with angels, or refuse to live; With joy she'd bind it on thy favour'd head, Hence spleen-ey'd Fear, o'er-acting Caution's And greet thy judging ear with sweeter strains !

part, Mean while pursue, in public virtue's path, Betrays those succours Reason lends the heart. The palm of glory: only there will bloom

Yet these, submitted to fair Truth's coutroul, Pieriau laurels. Should'st thou deviate thence, These tyrants are the servants of the soul; Perish the blossoms of fair folding faine ! Through vales of peace the dove-like Hope shall Evin this poor wreath, that now affects thy brow,

Would lose its little bloom, the Muse repine, And bear at eve her olive branch away,
And blush that Halifax had stole her praise. 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, PRECEPTS OF CONJUGAL HAPPI. Should erring Nature casual faults disclose, NESS.

Wound not the breast that harbours your repose:

For every grief that breast from you shall prove, Friend, sister, partner of that gentle heart Is one link broken in the chain of love. Where my soul lives, and holds her dearest part ; Soon, with their objects, other woes are past, While love's soft raptures these gay hours em- But pains from those we love are pains that last. ploy,

Though faults or follies from reproach may fly, And Time puts on the yellow robe of Joy;

Yet in its shade the tender passions die. Will you, Maria, mark with patient ear

Love, like the flower that courts the Sun's The moral Muse, nor deem her song severe ? Through the long course of life's unclouded will nourish only in the smiles of day; day,

Distrust's cold air the generous plant annoys, Where sweetContentment smileson Virtue's way; and one chill blight of dire contempt destroys. Where Fancy opes her ever-varying views, O shun, my friend, avoid that dangerous coast, And Hope strews Aowers, and leads you as she Where peace expires; and fair aftection's lost; strews;

By wit, by grief, by anger org'd, forbear May each fair pleasure court thy favour'd breast, The speech contemptuous, and the scornful air. By truth protected, and by love caress'd!

If heart-felt quiet, thoughts unmix'd with pain, So Friendship vows, nor shall her vows be vain; While Peace weaves fowers o'er Hymen's golden For every pleasure comes in Virtue's train ;

chain, Each charm that tender sympathies impart, If tranquil days, if hours of smiling ease, The glow of soul, the transports of the heart, The sense of pleasure, and the power to please, Sweet meanings, that in silent truth convey

If charms like these deserve your serious care,
Mind into mind, and steal the soul away; Of one dark foe, one dangerous foe beware!
These gifts, O Virtue, these are all thy own; Like Hecla's mountain, while his heart's in flame,
Lost to the vicious, to the vain unknown ! His aspect's cold, -and Jealousy's bis name,
Yet blest with these, and happier charms than His hideous birth his wild disorders prove,

Begot by Hatred on despairing Love !
By Nature form’d, by genius taught to please, Her throes in rage the frantic mother bore,
E’en you, to prove that mortal gifts are rain, And the fell sire with angry curses tore
Must yield your human sacrince to pain ; His sable hair.-Distrust beholding smild,
The wizard Care shall dim those brilliant eyes, And lov'd her image in her future child.
Smite the fair urns, and bid the waters rise. With cruel care, industrious to impart

With mind unbroke that darker hour to bear, Each painful seose, each soul-tormenting art,
Nor, once his captive, drag the chains of Care, To Doubt's dim shrine her hapless charge she led,
Hope's radiant sun shine o'er the scene to pour, Where never sleep reliev'd the burning head,
Nor future joys in present ills devour,

Where never grateful fancy sooth'd suspense,
These arts your philosophic friend may show, Or the sweet charm of easy confidence.
Too well experienced in the school of woe. Hence fears eternal, ever-restless care,

In some sad hour, by transient grief opprest, And all the dire associates of despair.
Ah ! let not vain reflection wound your breast;

Hence all the woes he found that peace destroy, For Memory then, to happier objects blind, And dash with pain the sparkling stream of joy. Though once the friend, the traitor of the mind, When lore's warm breast, from rapture's Life's varied sorrows studious to explore,

trembling height, Turus the sad volume of its sufferings o'er. Falls to the temperate measures of delight; Still to the distant prospect stretch your eye,

When calm delight to easy friendship turns, Pass the dim cloud,and view the brightening sky, Grieve not that Hymen's torch more gently burns. On Hope's kind wing, more genial climes survey, Unerring Nature, in each purpose kind, Let Fancy join. but Reason guide your way; Forbids long transports to usurp the mind : For Fancy, still to tender woes inclin'd

For, oft dissolv'd in joy's oppressive ray, May sooth the heart, but misdirects the mind. Soon would the finer faculties decay.

The source of half our anguish, halfour tears, True tender love one even terour keeps; Is the wrong conduct of our hopes and fears ; 'Tis reason's fame and burns when passion sleeps,

The charm connubial, like a stream that glides And far for him their fruitful store Through life's fair vale, with no unequal tides, The fairer plains of Carron spread; With many a plant along its genial side, In fortune rich, in offspring poor, With many a flower that blows in beauteous pride, An only daughter crown'd bis bed. With many a shade, where Peace in rapturous oh! write not poor—the wealth that flows, Holds sweet Affiance to her fearless breast, (rest

In waves of gold round India's throne, Pure in its source, and temperate in its way,

All in her shining breast that glows, Still flows the same, nor find its urp decay. o bliss beyond what lonely life can know,

To Ellen's' charms, were earth and stone, The soul-felt sympathy of joy and woe!

For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
That magic charm which makes e'en sorrow dear, The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave,
And turns to pleasure the partaken tear !

And smoother Italy apply'd,
Long, beauteous friend, to you may Heaven im- And many an English baron brave,
The soft endearments of the social heart! (part In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
Long to your lot may every blessing flow,

No foreign loves her breast beguile,
That sense, or taste, or virtue can bestow!

And England's honest valour fail'd,
And oh, forgive the zeal your peace inspires, Paid with a cold, but courteous smile,
To teach that prudence wbich itself admires.

“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 ! There is something romantic in the story of

“ Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love the following poem; but the author has his reasons for believing that there is something like-For soon those gentle arms shall prove

Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! wise authentic. On the simple circumstances of

The conflict of a ruder field.” the ancient narrative, from which he first borrowed his idea, those reasons are principally founded; 'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke, and they are supported by others, with which, And cast a rueful glance behind, in a work of this kind, to trouble bis readers As from her dim wood glen she broke, would be superfluous.

And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanish'd-more unmor'd This poem is inscribed to a lady, whose ele- Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,

gant taste, whose amiable sensibility, and The valiant youth, by Ellen lov'd, whose unaffected friendship, have long con

With aught that fear or fate suggest. tributed to the pleasure and happiness of For Love, inethinks, hath power to raise

The soul beyond a vulgar state ; Ox Carron's side the primrose pale,

Th’ unconquer'd banners he displays Why does it wear a purple hue?

Control our fears, and fix our fate. Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

'Twas when, on summer's softest eve, Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?

Of clouds that wander'd west away, 'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood

Twilight with gentle hand did weave
That purple grows the primrose pale ;

Her fairy robe of night and day ;
That pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.

When all the mountain gales were still,

And the wave slept against the shore, The evening star sate in his eye,

And the Sun, sunk beneath the hill,
The Sun his golden tresses gave,

Left his last smile on Lemmermore 3;
The North's pure morn her orient dye,
To him who rests in yonder grave!

Led by those waking dreams of thought

That warm the young unpractis'd breast, Eeneath no high, historic stone,

Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought, Tho' nobly born, is Owen laid,

And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd her Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,

into rest. He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There is some kind and courtly sprite There many a flowery race bath sprung,

That o'er the realm of Faucy reigos, And Aled before the mountain gale,

Throws sunshine on the mask of night, Since first his simple dirge ye sung,

And smiles at slumber's powerless chains; Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! Yet still, when May with fragrant feet

2 The lady Ellen, only daughter of John earl Hatb wander'd o'er your meads of gold,

of Moray, betrothed to the earl of Nithisdale, That dirge I hear so simply sweet

and afterwards to the earl Barnard, was esFar echoed from each evening fold.

teemed one of the finest women in Europe, in'I'was in the pride of William's' day,

somuch that she had several suitors and admirers When Scotland's bonours flourish'd still,

from foreign courts. The Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

3 A chain of mountains running through ScotBore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

land from east to west.


"William the Lion, king of Scotland,

*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 wapd

Wav'd all the witcheries of love: Yet it was wrought in siniple 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,

Coinbind 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 bim 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 fieeting 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 dag.

Oh!-who is he whose ringlets fair

Disorder'd o'er his green rest flow, Reclin'din rest—whose sunny hair

Half bides 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 fraine, 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 bis 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 faled grove. She strives to fly-from wizzard's wand

As well might powerless captive flyThe new-cropt flower falls from her hand

Ah ! 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,

10 ! she will chide thy trifling stay, And lord of many a lowland hind,

E'en now the soft reproach she frames : And long for Ellen love had he,

“ Can lovers brook such long delay? Had love, but not of gentle kind.

Lovers that boast of ardent flames!» From Moray's halls her absent hour

He comes not-weary with the chase, He watch'd with all a miser's care ;

Soft Slumber o'er his eyelids throws The wide domain, the princely dower

Her veil-we'll steal one dear embrace, Made Ellen more than Ellen fair.

We'll gently steal on his repose. Ab wretch ! to think the liberal soul

This is the bower-we'll softly treadMay thus with fair affection part !

He sleeps beneath yon poplar paleThough Lothian's vales thy sway control, Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled, Koow, Lothian is not worth one heart.

Thy heart will far forego my tale!. Studious he marks her absent hour,

Ellen is not in princely bower, And, winding far where Carron flows,

She's not in Moray's splendid train ; Sudden he sees the fated bower,

Their mistress dear, at midnight hour, And red rage on his dark brow glows.

Her weeping maidens seek in vain. For who is he? -'Tis Nithisdale!

Her pillow swells not deep with down; And that fair form with arm reclin'd

For her no balms their sweets exhale : On his Tis Ellen of the vale,

Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, 'Tis she (O powers of vengeance !) kind. Press'd by her lovely cheek as pale. Should he that vengeance swift pursue ? On that fair cheek, that flowing hair, No—that would all bis hopes destroy ;

The broom its yellow leaf hath shed, Moray would vanish from his view,

And the chill mountain's early air And rob him of a miser's joy.

Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. Unseen to Moray's balls he hies

As the soft star of orient day, He calls his slaves, his ruffian band,

When clouds involve his rosy light, And, “ Haste to yonder groves,” he cries, Darts thro' the gloom a transient ray,

" And ambush'd lie by Carron's strand. And leaves the world once more to night; “What time ye mark from bower or glen Returning life illumes her eyc, A gentle lady take her way,

And slow its languid orb unfolds To distance due, and far from ken,

What are those bloody arrows nigh? Allow her length of time to stray.

Sure, bloody arrows she beholds ! “ Then ransack straight that range of groves - What was that form so ghastly pale, With hunter's spear, and vest of green,

That low beneath the poplar layiIf chance, a rosy stripling roves,

'Twas some poor youth-" ah Nithisdale !" Ye well can aim your arrows keen.”

She said, and silent sunk away. And now the ruffian slaves are nigh,

The morn is on the mountains spread, And Ellen takes her homeward way:

The wood-lark trills his liquid strainThougb stay'd by many a tender sigh,

Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead, She can no longer, longer stay.

Give the set eye its soul again? Pensive, against yon poplar pale

A shepherd of that gentler mind The lover leans his gentle heart,

Which Nature not profusely yields, Revolving many a tender tale,

Seeks in these lonely shades to find And wondering still how they could part.

Some wanderer from his little fields. Three arrows pierc'd the desert air,

Aghast he stands--and simple fear Ere yet his tender dreams depart;

O’er all his paly visage glides And one struck deep his forehead fair,

"Ah me ! what means this misery here, And one went through his gentle heart.

What fate this lady fair betides?” Love's waking dream is lost in sleep

He bears her to his friendly home, He lies beneath yon poplar pale ;

When life, he finds, has but retir'd ;Ah ! could we marvel ye should weep,

With haste he frames the lover's tomb, Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

For his is quite, is quite expir'd! When all the mountain gales were still,

“O hide me in my humble bower," And the wave slept against the shore,

Returning late to life she said; And the Sun, sunk beneath the hill,

bind thy crook with many a flower; Left his last smile on Lemmermore;

With many a rosy wreath thy head. Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way

“Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove, Along the fairy-featur'd vale;

And, if my love asleep is faid, Bright o'er his wave does Carron play,

Oh! wake him not; but softly more And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale.

Some pillow to that gentle head. She'll meet him soun—for at her sight

"Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain, Swist as the mountain deer he sped ;

Thou know'st the sun-rise o'er the sea The evening shades will sink in night,- But oh! no lamb in all thy traja Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ?

Was e'er so mild, so mild as he."

“ His head is on the wood-moss laid ;

Thy offspring are great Nature's-free, I did not wake his slumber deep

And of her fair dominion heirs ; Sweet sings the redbreast o'er the shade Each privilege she gives to thee; Why, gentle lady, would you weep?"

Know, that each privilege is theirs. As flowers that fade in burning day,

They have thy feature, irear thine eye, At evening find the dew-drop dear,

Perhaps some feelings of thy heart; But fiercer feel the noon-tide ray,

And wilt thou their lov'd hearts deny When soften'd by the nightly tear;

To act their fair, their proper part ? Returning in the Aowing tear,

The lord of Lothian's fertile vale, This lovely flower, more sweet than they, Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand; Found her fair soul, and, wandering near, Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale The stranger, Reason, cross'd her way.

Was low laid by his ruffian-band. Found her fair soul-Ah ! so to find

And Moray, with unfatherd eyes, Was but more dreadful grief to know !

Fix'd on fair Lothian's fertile dale, Ah ! sure the privilege of mind

Attends bis human sacrifice, Can not be worth the wish of woe.

Without the Grecian painter's veil. On melancholy's silent urn

O married Love! thy bard shall own, A softer shade of sorrow falls,

Where two congenial souls unite, But Ellen can no more retum,

Thy golden chain inlaid with down, No more return to Moray's halls.

Thy lamp with Heaven's own splendour bright; Beneath the low and lonely shade

But if no radiant star of love, The slow, consuming hour she'll weep,

O Hymen ! smile on thy fair rite, Till Nature seeks her last-left aid,

Thy chain a wretched weight shall prove, In the sad, sombrous arms of Sleep.

Thy lamp a sad sepulchral light. “ These jewels, all unmeet for me,

And now has Time's slow wandering wing Shalt thou,” she said, "good shepherd, take; Where is the boy by Carron's spring,

Borne many a year unmark'd with speedThese gems will purchase gold for thee, And these be thine for Ellen's sake.

Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed? “ So fail thou not, at eve and morn,

Ah me! those flowers be binds no more; The rosemary's pale bough to bring

No early charm returns again; Thou know'st where I was found forlorn

The parent, Nature, keeps in store Where thou hast heard the redbreast sing.

Her best joys for her little train. “ Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,

No longer heed the sun-beam bright Or aid thy sheperdess's care,

That plays on Carron's breast he can, For I will share her humble toil,

Reason has lent her quivering light, And I her friendly roof will share.”

And shown the chequer'd field of man. And now two longsome years are past

As the first human heir of Earth In luxury of lonely pain

With penşive eye himself survey'd, The lovely mourner, found at last,

And, all unconscious of his birth, To Moray's halls is borne again.

Sate thoughtful oft in Eden's shade; Yet has she left one object dear,

In pensive thought so Owen stray'd That wears Love's sunny eye of joy-

Wild Carron's lonely woods among, Is Nithisdale reviving here?

And once, within their greenest glade, Or is it but a shepherd's boy?

He fondly fram'd this simple soug : By Carron's side, a shepherd's boy,

“Why is this crook adorn'd with gold ? He binds his vale-flowers with the reed; Why am I tales of ladies told ? He wears Love's sunny eye of joy,

Why does no labour me employ, And birth he little seems to heed.

If I am but a shepherd's boy? But ah! no more his infant sleep

“ A silken vest like mine so green Closes beneath a mother's smile,

In shepherd's hut I have not seen Who, only when it clos'd, would weep,

Why should I in such vesture joy, And yield to tender woe the while.

If I am but a shepherd's boy? No more, with fond attention dear,

“ I know it is no shepherd's art She seeks th' unspoken wish to find;

His written meaning to impartNo more shall she, with pleasure's tear,

They teach me, sure, an idle toy, See the soul waxing into mind.

If I am bat a shepherd's boy. Does Nature bear a tyrant's breast?

“ This bracelet bright that binds my armIs she the friend of stern Controul ?

It could not come from sheperd's farm ; Wears she the despot's purple vest ?

It only would that arm annoy, Or fetters she the free-born soul ?

If I were but a shepherd's buy. Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim

“ And O thou silent picture fair, In chains thy children's breasts to bind ? That lov'st to smile upon me there, Gav'st thon the Promethean flame?

O say, and fill my heart with joy, The incommunicable mind ?

That I am not a shepherd's boy

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