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And elegantly simple. In thy train,
Glory, and fair Renown, and deathless Fame
Attendant ever, each immortal name,
By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault
Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.
Be thine the care, alone where truth directs
The firm heart, where the love of human kind
Inflames the patriot spirit, there to soothe
The toils of Virtue with melodious praise :
For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake
His golden lyre; for those, the young-ey'd Sun
Gilds this fair-form'd world; and genial Spring
Throws many a green wreath liberal from his

So spake the voice divine, whose last sweet sound
Gave birth to Echo, tuneful nymph, that loves
The Muse's haunt, dim grove, or lonely dale,
Or high wood old; and, listening while she sings,
Dwells in long rapture on each falling strain.

O Halifax! an humble Muse, that dwells In scenes like these, a stranger to the world, To thee a stranger, late has learnt thy fame, Even in this vale of silence; from the voice Of Echo learnt it, and, like her, delights, With thy lov'd name, to make these wild woods vocal.

Spirits of ancient time, to high renown
By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,
Achiev'd for Britain's freedom! patriot hearts,
That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,
Embrac'd your bleeding country! o'er the page,
Where History triumphs in your holy names,
O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,
Why streams my eye with pleasure? 'Tis the joy
The soft delight that through the full breast flows,
From sweet rememb'rance of departed virtue !
O Britain, parent of illustrious names,
While o'er thy annals Memory shoots her eye,
How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering

And emulous esteem!-Hail, Sydney, hail!
Whether Arcadian blythe, by fountain clear,
Piping thy love-lays wild, or Spartan bold,
In Freedom's van distinguish'd, Sydney hail!
Oft o'er thy laurell'd tomb from hands unseen
Fall flowers; oft in the vales of Penshurst fair,
Menalca, stepping from his evening fold,
Listeneth strange music, from the tiny breath
Of fairy minstrels warbled, which of old,
Dancing to thy sweet lays, they learned well.
On Raleigh's grave, O strew the sweetest

That on the bosom of the green vale blow!
There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village-
Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme
To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the
The virgin rose, that, blushing to be seen, [bay,
Folds its fair leaves; for modest worth was his;
A mind where Truth, Philosophy's first born,
Held her harmonious reign: a Britain's breast,
That, careful still of Freedom's holy pledge,
Disdain'd the mean arts of a tyrant's court,
Disdain'd and died! Where was thy spirit then,
Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled?
How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!
Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,
How well he serv'd thee: when her vanquish'd

Held forth the base Bribe, how he spurn'd it from
And cried, I fight for Britain! History rise,[him
And blast the reigns that redden with the blood
Of those that gave them glory! Happier days,
Gilt with a Brunswick's parent smile, await
The honour'd Viceroy. More auspicious hours
Shall Halifax behold, nor grieve to find
A favour'd land ungrateful to his care.

O for the Muse of Milton, to record
The honours of that day, when full conven'd
Hibernia's senate with one voice proclaim'd
A nation's high applause; when, long opprest
With wealth-consuming war, their eager love
Advanc'd the princely dignity's support,
While Halifax presided! O, belov'd
By every Muse, grace of the polish'd court,
The peasant's guardian, then what pleasure felt
Thy liberal bosom! not the low delight
Of Fortune's added gifts, greatly declin'd;
No, 'twas the supreme bliss that fills the breast
Of conscious Virtue, happy to behold
Her cares successful in a nation's joy.

But O, ye sisters of the sacred spring, To sweetest accents tune the polish'd lay, The music of persuasion ! You alone Can paint that easy eloquence that flow'd In Attic streams, from Halifax that flow'd, When all Iërne listen'd. Albion heard, And felt a parent's joy: "No more," she cried, "No more shall Greece the man of Athens boast, Whose magic periods smooth'd the listening

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"Unhappy Wharton, whose young eloquence
Yet vibrates on mine ear." Whatever powers,
Whatever genii old, of vale or grove
The high inhabitants, all throng'd to hear.
Sylvanus came, and from his temples grey
His oaken chapled flung, lest haply leaf
Or interposing bough should meet the sound,
And bar its soft approaches to his ear,
P'an ceas'd to pipe-a moment ceas'd-for then
Suspicion grew, that Phoebus in disguise
His ancient reign invaded : down he cast,
In petulance, his reed; but seiz'd it soon
And fill'd the woods with clangour. Measures wild
The wanton Satyrs danc'd, then listening stood,
And gaz'd with uncouth joy.

But hark! wild riots shake the peaceful plain, The gathering tumult roars, and Faction opes Her blood-requesting eye. The frighted swain Mourns o'er his wasted labours, and implores His country's guardian. Previous to his wish That guardian's care he found. The tumult ceas'd,

And Faction clos'd her blood-requesting eye.
Be these thy honours, Halifax ! and these
The liberal Muse, that never stain'd her page

With flattery, shall record: from each low view,
Each mean connection free, her praise is fame.
O, could her hand in future times obtain
One humble garland from th' Aonian tree,
With joy she'd bind it on thy favour'd head,
And greet thy judging ear with sweeter strains!
Mean while pursue, in public virtue's path,
The palm of glory: only there will bloom
Pierian laurels. Should'st thou deviate thence,
Perish the blossoms of fair folding fame!
Ev'n this poor wreath, that now affects thy brow,
Would lose its little bloom, the Muse repine,
And blush that Halifax had stole her praise.


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-

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

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


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

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

Betrays those succours Reason lends the heart.

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

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 aftection's lost;
By wit, by grief, by anger urg'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.

The fairer plains of Carron spread;
In fortune rich, in offspring poor,

The charm connubial, like a stream that glides ( And far for him their fruitful store
Through life's fair vale, with no unequal tides,
With many a plant along its genial side,
With many a flower that blows in beauteous pride,
With many a shade, where Peace in rapturous
Holds sweet Affiance to her fearless breast, [rest
Pure in its source, and temperate in its way,
Still flows the same, nor find its urn decay.

O bliss beyond what lonely life can know,
The soul-felt sympathy of joy and woe!
That magic charm which makes e'en sorrow dear,
And turns to pleasure the partaken tear!

Long, beauteous friend, to you may Heaven im-
The soft endearments of the social heart! [part
Long to your lot may every blessing flow,
That sense, or taste, or virtue can bestow!
And oh, forgive the zeal your peace inspires,
To teach that prudence which itself admires.


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.

This poem is inscribed to a lady, whose elegant taste, whose amiable sensibility, and whose unaffected friendship, have long contributed to the pleasure and happiness of


Os 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,

Tho' 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,
The Moray's earl, with mighty sway,
Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

'William the Lion, king of Scotland.

Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows,
An only daughter crown'd his bed.
In waves of gold round India's throne,
All in her shining breast that glows,
To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone,
For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave,
And smoother Italy apply'd,

In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
And many an English baron brave.

No foreign loves her breast beguile,
And England's honest valour fail'd,

Paid with a cold, but courteous smile.
"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 prove

The conflict of a ruder field."
'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke,

As from her dim wood glen she broke,
And cast a rueful glance behind,
And mounted on the moaning wiud.
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, hath power to raise
The soul beyond a vulgar state;
Th' 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 3 ;
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 sooth'd her
into rest.

There is some kind and courtly sprite

That o'er the realm of Faucy reigns,
Throws sunshine on the mask of night,

And smiles at slumber's powerless chains;

2 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 courts.

3 A chain of mountains running through Scotland from east to west.

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 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 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 ward As well might powerless captive flyThe new-cropt flower falls froin 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 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 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'il 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?

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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 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.

The morn is on the mountains spread,

The wood-lark 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 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 move
Some pillow to that gentle head.

"Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain,

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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."

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