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** His head is on the wood-moss laid;

I did not wake his slumber deepSweet 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, Lut fiercer feel the noon-tide ray,

When soften’d by the nightly tear; Returning in the Aowing 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 balls. 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 bringThou know'st where I was found forlorn

Where thou hast heard the redbreast sing.
"Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,

Or aid thy sheperdess's care,
Por I will share her humble toil,

And I her friendly roof will share.”
And now two longsome years are past

In luxury of lonely pair-
The lovely mourner, found at last,

To Moray's halls is borne again.
Yet bas 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 bis 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 ?
Years she the despot's purple vest ?

Or fetidrs she the free-born soul ?
Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim

In chains thy children's breasts to bind ?
Sav'st thon 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,

111-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 upmark'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 returus 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 hecan, 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 bis birth,

Sate thoughtfui 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 buy.
“ And 0 thou silent picture fair,
That lov'st to smile upon me there,
O say, and fill my heart with juy,
That I am not a shepherd's boy”

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Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay

Yes, she is there ; from idle state May not thy gentle life prolong:

Oft has sbe stole her hour to weep; See'st thou yon nightingale a prey ?

Think how she by thy cradle sate,' The fierce hawk” hovering o'er his song?

And how she' fondly saw thee sleep'.' His little heart is large with love:

Now tries his trembling band to fraine He sweetly hails his evening star,

Full many a tender line of love; And fate's more pointed arrows move,

And still he blots the parent's name, Insidious, from his eye afar.

For that, he fears, might fatal prove. he shepherdess, whose kindly care

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath,

Reclin'd a dim tower, clad with moss, Must now their silent mansions share,

Where every bird was wont to bide, Wbom time leads calmly down to death.

That languish'd for its partner's loss. “O tell me, parent if thou art,

This scene be chose, this scene assign'd What is this lovely picture dear?

A parent's first embrace to wait, Why wounds its mournful eye my heart? And many a soft fear fill'd his mind,

Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear >> Anxious for bis fond letter's fate. “ Ah ! youth ! to leave thee loth am I,

The hand that bore those lines of love, Tho's be not thy parent dear;

The well-informing bracelet bore And would'st thou wish, or ere I die,

Ah ! may they not unprosperous prove! The story of thy birth to hear ?

Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door! " But it will make thee much bewail,

“ She comes not ;-can she then delay!" And it will make thy fair eye swe!l :"

Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tearShe said, and told the woesome tale,

" Whatever filial love could say, As sooth as sheperdess might tell.

To her I said, and call'd her dear.” The heart, that sorrow doom'd to share,

" She comes-Oh! no-encircled round Has worn the frequent seal of woe,

"Tis some rude chief with many a spear, Its sad impressions learns to bear,

My hapless tale that ear] has foundAnd finds full oft its ruin slow.

Ah me ! my heart !-for her I fear." But when that seal is first imprest,

His tender tale that earl had read, When the young heart its pain shall try,

Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye, From the soft, yielding, trembling breast,

His dark brow wears a cloud of red, Oft seems the startled soul to fly:

In rage he deems a rival nigh. Yet fed pot Owen's-wild amaze

'Tis o'er-those locks that war'd in gold, In paleness cloth'd, and lifted hands,

That wav'd adown those cheeks so fair, And horrour's dread, unmeaning gaze,

Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's bold, Mark the poor statue, as it stands.

Hang from the severd head in air ! The simple guardian of his life

That streaming head he joys to bear Look'd wistful for the tear to glide;

In horrid guise to Lothian's halls; But when she saw his tearless strife,

Bids his grim ruffians place it there, Silent, she lent him ope, --- and died.

Erect upon the frowning walls. “ No, I am not a shepherd's boy,"

The fatal tokens fortb he drewAwaking from his dream, he said :

“ Know'st thou these-Ellen of the rale ?" "Ah, where is now the promis'd joy

The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew, Of this ?--for ever, ever fled !

And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. “O picture dear!—for her lov'd sake

The trembling victim straight he led, How fondly could my heart bewail !

Ere yet her soul's first fear was v'er : My friendly shepherdess, O wake,

He pointed to the ghastly beadAnd tell me more of this sad tale:

She saw-and sunk to rise no more. "O tell me more of this sad tale

· See the ancient Scottish ballad, called G No; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep!

Morrice, And I will go to Lothian's vale,

And more than all her waters weep." Owen to Lothian's vale is fled

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear“O! art thou there,” the full heart said,

" O art thou there, my parent dear :)”

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-Sylvas, saltusque sequamur Intactos



THE SUN:FLOWER AND THE IVY. As dateous to the place of prayer,

Within the convent's lonely walls, The holy sisters still repair,

What time the rosy morning calls: So fair, each morn, so full of grace,

Within their little garden rear'd, The flower of Phæbus turn'd her face

To meet the power she lov'd and fear'd, And where, along the rising sky,

Her god in brighter glory burn'd, Still there ber fond observant eye,

And there her golden breast she turn'd. When calling from their weary height

On western waves his beams to rest, Still there she sought the parting sight,

And there she turn'd her golden breast.
But soon as night's invidious shade

Afar his lovely looks had borne,
With folded leaves and drooping head,

Full sore she griev'd, as one forlorn.
Such duty in a flower display'd

The holy sisters smil'd to see,
Forgave the pagan rites it paid,

And lov'd its fond idolatry.
But painful still, though meant for kind,

The praise that falls on Envy's ear,
O'er the dim windows arch entwind,

The canker'd lvy chanc'd to hear. And “See," she cried, “ that specious flower,

Whose flattering bosom courts the Sun, "The pageant of a gilded hour,

The convent's simple hearts hath won! “Obsequious meanness! ever prone

To watch the patron's turning eye; No will, no motion of its own !

'Tis this they love, for this they sigh: “Go, splendid sycophant! no more

Display thy soft seductive arts ! The flattering clime of courts explore,

Nor spoil the convent's simple hearts. “ To me their praise more justly due,

Of longer bloom, and happier grace! Whom changing months unalter'd view,

And find them in my fond embrace.” “ How well,” the modest flower replied,

“Can Envy's wrested eye elude The obvious bounds that still divide

Foul Flattery from fair Gratitude.

“ My duteous praise each hour I pay,

For few the hours that I must live, And give to him my little day,

Whose grace another day may give. “ When low this golden form shall fall

And spread with dust its parent plain; That dust shall hear bis genial call,

And rise, to glory rise again. To thee, my gracious power, to thee

My love, my heart, my life are due! Thy goodness gave that life to be;

Thy goodness shall that life renew. “ Ah me! one moment from thy sight

That thus my truant-eye should stray ! The god of glory sets in night!

His faithless flower has lost a day.” Sore griev'd the flower, and droop'd her head;

And sudden tears her breast bedew'd : Consenting iears the sisters shed,

And, wrapt in holy wonder, view'd. With joy, with pious pride elate,

“ Behold,” the aged abbess cries, “An emblem of that happier fate

Which Heaven to all but us denies. " Our hearts no fears but duteous fears,

No charm but daty's charm can move? We shed no tears but holy tears

Of tender penitence and love. « See there the envious world pourtray'd

In that dark look, that creeping pace! No flower can bear the Ivy's shade;

No tree support its cold embrace. " The oak that rears it from the ground,

And bears its tendrils to the skies, Feels at his heart the rankling wound,

And in its poisonous arms he dies." Her moral thus the matron read,

Studious to teach her children dear, And they by love, or duty led,

With pleasure heard, or seem'd to hear. Yet one less duteous, not less fair,

(In convents still the tale is known) The fable heard with silent care,

But found a moral of her own.
The flower that smil d along the day,

And droop'd in tears at evening's fall;
Too well she found her life display,

Too well her fatal lot recall.
The treacherous Ivy's gloomy shade,

That murder'd what it most embrae'd,
Too well that cruel scene convey'd

Which all her fairer hopes effac'd.

ller heart with silent horrour shook;

With sighs she sought her lonely cell: To the dim light she cast one look;

And bade once more the world farewell.

Gliding o'er thy yielding mind,
Leare sweet serenity behind,
While all disarm'd, the cares of day
Steal thro' the falling gloom away?
Lave to think thy lot was laid
In this undistinguish'd shade.
Far from the world's infectious view,
Thy little virtues safely blew.
Go, and in day's more dangerous hour,
Guard thy emblematic flower.”



THE EVENING PRIMROSE. There are that love the shades of life,

And shun the splendid walks of fame; There are that hold it rueful strife

To risk ambition's losing game; That far from Envy's lurid eye

The fairest fruits of genius rear, Content to see them bloom and die,

In Friendship's small but kindly sphere. Than vainer flowers tho sweeter far,

The evening Primrose shuns the day; Blooms only to the western star,

And loves its solitary ray. In Eden's vale an aged hind,

At the dim twilight's closing hour,
On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd,

With wonder view'd the opening flower.
Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,”

In pity's simple thought he cries, “Thy bosom must not feel the glow

Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. “ Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,

The hamlet's little train behold; Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,

When thine the falling shades unfold. “ Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds,

When love has fill'd his heart with cares, For flowers he rifles all the meads,

For waking flowers-but thine forbears. “Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom

On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath : Let smiling suns those gems illume!

Fair flower, to live unseen is death." Soft as the voice of vernal gales

That o'er the bending meadow blow, Or streams that steal thro'even vales,

And murmur that they more so slow :
Deep in her unfrequented bower,

Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain;
The bird of eve approv'd her flower,
And answered thus the anxious swain.

" Live unseen!
By moonlight shades, in valleys green,

Lovely flower, we'll live unseen.
Of our pleasures deem not lightiy,
Laughing Day may look more sprightly,

But I love the modest mien,

Still I love the modest inien
Of gentle Evening fair, and her star-train'd

“ Didst thou, shepherd, never find,

P'leasureis of pensive kind ?
Hast thy cottage never known
That she loves to live alone?
Dost thon not at evening hour
Feel some soft and secret power,

The reed' that once the shepherd blew

On old Cephisus' hallow'd side,
To Sylla's cruel bow apply'd,

Its inoffensive master slew.
Stay, bloody soldier, stay thy hand,

Nor take the shepherd's gentle breath :
Thy rage let innocence withstand;

Let music soothe the thirst of death.
He frown'd-he bade the arrow fly-

The arrow smote the tupeful swain;
No more its tone bis lip shall try,

Nor wake its vocal soul again.
Cephisus, from his sedgy urn,

With woe beheld the sanguine deed;
He mourn'd, and, as they heard nim mourn,

Assenting sigh'd each trembling reed.
“ Fair offspring of my waves,' be cried;

“That bind my brows, my banks adorn,
Pride of the plains, the river's pride,

For music, peace, and beauty born!
Ah! what, unheedful have ve done?

What demons here in death delight?!
What fiends that curse the social Sun?

What furies of infernal night?
“See, see my peaceful shepherds bleed!

Each heart in harmony that vy’d,
Smote by its own melodious reed,

Lies cold, along my blushing side.
« Back to your urn, my waters, fly;

Or find in earth some secret way;
For horrour dims yon conscious sky,

And Hell has issu'd into day.”
Thro' Delphi's holy depth of shade

The sympathetic sorrows ran;
While in his dim and mournful glade

The Genius of her groves began :
“ In vain Cephisus sigbs to save

The swain that loves his watry mead,
And weeps to see his reddening wave,

And mourns for his perverted reed:
“ In vain my violated groves

Must I with equal grief bewail,
While desolation sternly roves,

And bids the sanguine hand assail.


1 The reeds on the banks of the Cephisus, er which the shepherds made their pipes, Sylla's soldiers used for arrows.

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“ God of the geniul stream, behold

'Twas thus of old a poet pray'd; My laurel shades of leaves so bare !

Th’indulgent power his pray'r approv'd, Those leaves no poet's brows enfold,

And, ere the gather'd rose could fade, Nor bind Apollo's golden hair.

Restor'd him to the scenes he lov'd. Like thy fair ofispring, misappiy'd,

A rose, the poet's favourite flower, Far other purpose they supply;

From Flora's cultur'd walks he bore; The murderer's burning check to hide,

No fairer bloom'd in Esher's bower, And on his frownful temples die.

Nor Prior's charming Chloe wore. " Yet deem not these of Pluto's race,

No fairer flowers could Fancy twine Whom wounded Nature sues in vain;

To bide Anacreon's snowy hair; Pluto disclaims the dire disgrace,

For there Almeria's bloom divine,
And cries, indignant, They are men.”

And Elliot's sweetest blush was there.
When she, the pride of courts, retires,

And leaves for shades a nation's love,

With awe the village maid admires,

How Waldegrave looks, how Waldegrave THE GARDEN ROSE AND THE

moves. WILD ROSE.

So marvell'd much in Enon's shade As Dee, whose current, free from stain,

The flowers that all uncultur'd grew, Glides fair o'er Merioneth's plain,

When there the splendid Rose display'd By mountains forc'd his way to steer,

Her swelling breast and shining hue. Along the lake of Pimble Mere,

Yet one, that oft adorn’d the place Darts swiftly thro' the stagnant mass,

Where now her gaudy rivai reign'd, His waters trembling as they pass,

Of simpler bloom, but kindred race,
And leads his lucid waves below,

The pensive Eglantine coinplain'd.
Unmix'd, unsullied as they flow-
So clear thro' life's tumultuous tide,

“ Mistaken youth," with sighs she said,

“ From Nature and from ine to stray! So free could Thought and Fancy glide; Could Hope as sprigitiy hold her course,

The bard, by splendid forms betray'd, As first she left her native source,

No more shall frarne the purer lay. Unsought in her romantic cell

“Luxuriant, like the flaunting Ruse, The keeper of her dreams might dwell.

And gay the brilliant strains may be, “ But ah! they will not, will not last

But far, in beauty, far from those, When life's first fairy stage is past,

That flow'd to Nature and to me." The glowing hand of Hope is cold;

The poet felt, with fond surprise, And Fancy lives not to be old.

The truths the sylvan critic told; Darker, and darker all before ;

And, “Though this courtly Roose,” he cries, We turn the former prospect o'er;

“ Is gay, is beauteons to behold; And find in Memory's faithful eye Our little stock of pleasures lie.

Yet, lovely power, I find in thee “ Come, then; thy kind recesses ope!

Wild sweetness which no words express, Fair keeper of the dreams of Hope!

And charms in thy simplicity,
Come with thy visionary train,

That dweli not in the pride of dress."
And bring my morning scenes again!
To Enon's wild and silent shade,
Where oft my lonely youth was laid;

What time the woodland Genius came,
And touch'd me with his holy Hame.-

THE VIOLET AND THE PANSY. “ Or, where the hermit, Bela, leads Her waves thro' solitary meads;

Snepuerd, if near thy artless breast And only feeds the desert-flower,

The god of fond desires repair ;
Where once she sooth'd my slumbering hour : Implore him for a gentle guest,
Or rous'a by Stainmore's wintry sky,

Implore him with unwearied prayer,
She wearies Echo with her cry ;
And oft, what storms her bosoin tear,

Should beauty's soul-enchanting smile,
Her deeply-wounded banks declare.-

Love-kindling looks, and features gay, " Where Eden's fairer waters flow,

Should these thy wandering eye beguile, By Milton's bower, or Osty's brow,

And steal thy wareless heart away; Or Brockley's alder-shaded care,

That beart shall soon with sorrow swell, Or, winding round the Druid's grave,

And soon the erring eye deplore, Silently glide, with pious fear

If in the beauteous bosom dwell To sound his holy slumbers near.

No gentle virtue's genial store.

Far from his bive one summer-day, " To these fair scenes of Pancy's reign,

A young and yet unpractis'd bee, O Memory! bear me once again:

Borne on his tender wings away', For, when life's varied scenes are past,

Went forth the flowery world to see. 'Tis simple Nature charms at last."

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