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And elegantly simple. In thy train,

Held forth the base bribe, how he spurn'd it from Glory, and fair Renowy), and deathless Fame And cried, I fight for Britain! History rise, [him Attendant ever, each immortal name,

And blast the reigns that redden with the blood By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault

Of those that gave them glory! Happier days, Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.

Gilt with a Brunswick's parent smile, avait Be thine the care, alone where truth directs The honour'd Viceroy. More auspicious hours The firm heart, where the love of human kind Shall Halifax behold, nor grieve to find · Inflames the patriot spirit, there to soothe

A favour'd land ungrateful to his care.
The toils of Virtue with melodions praise :

O for the Muse of Milton, to record
For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake The honours of that day, when full conren'd
His golden lyre ; for those, the young-ey'd Sun

Hibernia's senate with one voice prociaim'd Gilds this fair-form'd world ; and genial Spring A nation's high applause ; when, long opprest Throws many a green wreath liberal from his With wealth-consuming war, their eager love bosom.”

Advanc'd the princely dignity's support, So spake the voice divine, whose last sweet sound While Halifax presided ! o, belov'd Gave birth to Echo, tuneful nymph, that loves By every Muse, grace of the polish'd court, The Muse's haunt, dim grove, or lonely dale, The peasant's guardian, then what pleasure felt Or high wood old; and, listening while she sings, Thy liberal bosom! not the low delight Dwells in long rapture on each falling strain.

Of Fortune's added gifts, greatly declin'd; O Halifax! an humble Muse, that dwells No, 'twas the supreme bliss that fills the breast In scenes like these, a stranger to the world,

Of conscious Virtue, happy to behold To thee a stranger, late has learnt thy fame,

Her cares successful in a nation's joy. Even in this vale of silence; from the voice

But O, ye sisters of the sacred spring, Of Echo learnt it, and, like her, delights,

To sweetest accents tune the polish'd lay, With thy lov'd name, to make these wild woods The music of persuasion ! You alone vocal.

Can paint that easy eloquence that flow'd Spirits of ancient time, to high renown

In Attic streams, from Halifax that flow'd, By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,

When all lërne listen'd. Albion heard, Achiev'd for Britain's freedom ! patriot hearts,

And felt a parent's joy : “ No more," she cried, That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,

No more shall Greece the man of Athens boast, Embrac'd your bleeding country! v'er the page,

Whose magic periods smooth'd the listening Where History triumphs in your holy names, O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,

Of rapt llyssus. Rome shall claim no more Why streams my eye with pleasure? ''Tis the joy The flowery path of eloquence alone The soft delight that through the full breast flows, To grace her consul's brow; for never spoke From sweet rememb’rance of departed virtue !

Himeria's Viceroy words of fairer phrase, O Britain, parent of illustrious names,

Forgetful of Alpheus' hastening stream, While o'er thy annals Memory shoots her eye,

When Arethusa stop'd her golden tide, (swains, How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering Aud call’d her nymphs, and call'd her shepherd love,

To leave their sweet pipes silent. Silent lay And emulous esteem !--Hail, Sydney, hail !

Your pipes, Hibernian Shepherds." Liffey smil'd Whether Arcadian blythe, by fountain clear,

And on his soft hand lean'd his dimply cheek, Piping thy lore-lays wild, or Spartan bold,

Attentive : “ Ouce so Wharton spoke," he In Freedom's van distinguish'd, Sydvey hail !

cried, Oft o'er thy laurelld tomb from bands unseen

Unhappy Wharton, whose young eloquence Fall flowers; oft in the vales of Penshurst fair,

Yet vibraies on mine ear.” Whatever powers, Menalca, stepping from his evening fold,

Whatever genii old, of vale or grove Listeneth strange music, from the tiny breath

The high inhabitants, all throng'd to hear. Of fairy minstrels warbled, which of old,

Sylvanus came, and from his temples grey Dancing to thy sweet lays, they learned well.

His oaken chapled Aung, lest haply leaf On Raleigh's grave, O strew the sweetest Or interposing bough should meet the sound, flowers

And bar its soft approaches to his ear, That on the bosom of the green vale blow! Pan ceas'd to pipe-a moment ceas'd-for then There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village- Suspicion grew, that Phoebus in disguise maids !


His ancient reign invaded : down he cast, Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme In petulance, his reed ; but seiz'd it soon To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the

And fill'd the woods with clangour. Measures wild The virgin rose, that, blusbing to be seen, [bay, The wanton Satyrs danc’d, then listening stood, Folds its fair leaves ; for modest worth was his;

And gazd with uncóuth joy. A mind where Truth, Philosophy's first born,

Bnt hark ! wild riots shake the peaceful plain, Held her barmonious reign: a Britain's breast,

The gathering tumult roars, and Faction opes That, careful still of Freedom's holy pledge,

Her blood-requesting eye. The frighted stain Disdain'd the mean arts of a tyrant's court,

Mourns o'er his wasted labours, and implores Disdain'd and died ! Where was thy spirit then,

His country's guardian. Previous to bis wish Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled ? That guardian's care he found. The tumult How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!

ceas', Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,

And Faction clos'd her blood-requesting eye. How well he serv'd thee: when her vanquish'd | The liberal Muse, that never siain'd her page

Be these thy honours, Halifax! and these hand

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With flattery, 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: cnly there will bloom

Yet these, submitted to fair Truth's controul, Pierian laure's. Should'st thou deviate thence, These tyrants are the servants of the soul; Perish the blossoms of fair folding fame! Through vales of peace the dove-like Hope shall Ev'n tbis 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 paine 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 sont 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 smiles on 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 flowers, and leads you as she Where peace expires; and fair aftection's lost; strews;

By wit, by grief, by anger urg'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 flowers 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, these,

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 vain, And the fell sire with angry curses tore
Must yield your human sacrifice to pain ; His sable hair.- Distrust beholding smil'd,
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 sense, 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 pbilosophic friend may show, Or the sweet charm of easy contidence. 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 love's warm breast, from rapture's Life's varied sorrows studious to explore,

trembling height, Turns 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 tenour keeps; Is the wrong conduct of our hopes and fears; 'Tis reasou’s flame,and burns when passion sleeps.

The charm connubial, like a stream that glides ( And far for him their fruitful store Througb 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 his 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 Pure in its source, and temperate in its way,

In waves of gold round India's throne,
Still flows the same, nor find its urn decay.

All in her shining breast that glows,
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 oh, forgive the zeal your peace inspires,

And England's honest valour fail'd,

Paid with a cold, but courteous smile, To teach that prudence which 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 his readers As from her dim wood glen she broke, would be superfluous.'

And mounted on the moaning wiud.

She spoke and vanish'd-more unmov'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, wliose 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; On 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 suream 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

When all the mountain gales were still, From each fair eye in Marlivale.

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

And the Sun, sunk beneath the hill,
The Sun bis 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, Beneath 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 hath sprung,

That o'er the realm of Faucy reigns, And Aed before the mountain galė,

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

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'Twas in the pride of William's' day,

somuch that she had several suitors and admirers When Scotland's honours 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 Higbland hill.

land from east to west.


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William the Lion, king of Scotland,

Tis told, and I believe the tale,

At this soft hoyr 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 lung 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

War'd all the witcheries of love: Yet it was wrought in sinople 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; T'he 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,

Counbind 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,
Btill 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-losi 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 rest flow, Reclin'd in 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 picturd in her soul. As when some gentle spirit Aed

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 bills to rove,

And wind bis 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 faced grove. She strives to flyfrom wizzard's ward

As well might powerless captive fiy~ The new-cropt flower falls froin 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 bom,
Where Nature, listening thy soft tales,

I.eans 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?

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Earl Barnard was of high degree,

O ! 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 lore 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 ber 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 bis repose. Ah wretch ! to think the liberal soul

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

He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale Though Lothian's vales thy sway control, Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled, Know, 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 sivells 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 his 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 halls he hies

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

When clouds involve bis 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 unfoldsTo distance due, and far from ken,

What are those bloody arrows nigh? Allow ber 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 lay?If chance, a rosy stripling roves,

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

She said, und 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 bis liquid strain Though 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 sbades 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 retird;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,

" I'll bind thy crook with many a flower; Left his last smile on Leminermore;

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 laid, Bright o'er his wave does Carron play,

Oh! wake him not; but softly move 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, Swift as the mountain deer he sped;

Thou know'st the sun-rise o'er the seaThe evening shades will sink in night,

But oh! po lamb in all thy train Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ?

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

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