O! she will chide thy trifling stay,
Ev'n 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 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 l' She said, and silent sunk away.
The morn is on the mountains spread,
The woodlark trills his liquid strain...
Can 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 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 sings 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 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 forlornWhere 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.'
Vol. II.
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 the' 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 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 ?
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 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 splendor 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.
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