[This ballad was written by Dr. John Langhorne, (born 1735, died 1779,) author of the well-known Letters of Theodosius and Constantia,' and of A Translation of Plutarch's Lives,' written in conjunction with his brother, which,' says Mr. Campbell, Specimens of the British Poets,' London' 1841,) might be reckoned a real service to the bulk of the reading community;' and which, it may be added, still keeps its place as the translation of Plutarch. 'Owen of Carron' was first published in 1778, 4to, from which edition it is here taken, and was according to Mr. Campbell, the last of the author's works. It will not,' he says, be much to the advantage of this story to compare it with the simple and affecting ballad of Gil Maurice,' (Supra, Vol. 1., p. 188,) from which it is drawn. Yet having read Owen of Carron' with delight when I was a boy, I am still so far a slave to early associations as to retain some predilection for it.' In this feeling, probably, many readers of the Pictorial Balladist' will participate; while those who cannot refer any predilection' they may have for it to early associations,' may find a reason for liking it in the ballad itself.]

'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 sat 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,
Though nobly born, is Owen laid;
Stretcht on the greenwood'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 ample dirge he 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.

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day,

When Scotland's honours flourisht still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway, Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store
The fairer plains of Carron spread;
In fortune rich, in offspring poor,
An only daughter crown'd his bed.

O! write not poor-the wealth that flows
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 applied,

And many an English baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts assail'd

No foreign loves her breast beguile,

And England's honest valour fail'd,

"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,
And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dim wood-glen she broke,.
And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanisht-more unmoved
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen loved,

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.

III.

'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 waves slept against the shore,
And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lemmermore;

Led by those waking dreams of thought

That warm the young unpractised breast,

Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought,

And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd her into rest.

IV.

There is some kind and courtly sprite

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

And smiles at slumber's powerless chains :

'Tis told, and I believe the tale,

At this soft hour that sprite was there, And spread with fairer flowers the vale,

A bower he framed (for he could frame
What long might weary mortal wigh
Swift as the lightning's rapid flame
Darts on the unsuspecting sight.)

Such bower he framed with magic hand,
As well that wizard bard hath wove,
In scenes where fair Armida's wand
Waved all the witcheries of love.

Yet was it 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,
Combined 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.

V.

Hast thou not found in 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,

Thou hast and oft the pictured view,
Seen in some vision counted vain,
Has struck thy wondering eye anew,
And brought the long-lost dream again.
With warrior bow, with hunter's spear,
With locks adown his shoulder spread,
Young Nithisdale is ranging near-

He's ranging near yon mountain's head.

Scarce had one pale moon past 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.

VI.

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—

O! who is he whose ringlets fair
Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow,
Reclined 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 imaged on her breast, That lives still pictured 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-loved 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 haply o'er his hills to rove,