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OWEN OF CARRON,
Why does it wear a purple hue?
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,
To him who rests in yonder grave!
Beneath no high, historic stone,
Though 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,
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!
Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold,
II. 'Twas in the pride of William's # day,
When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway, Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.
• William the Lion, king of Scotland.
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. Oh! 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 assaild,
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.'
And cast a rueful glance behind,
And mounted on the moaning wind.
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;
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 wave 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 unpractis'd breast,
That o'er the realm of Fancy reigns,
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,
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 por 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,
Combin'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 him lies the hunter's spear,
Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow.
Thy sweet seductive arts forbear)
Some soft ideas melt away,
The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray? Hast thou not some fair object seen,
And, when the fleeting form was past,
And felt the fond idea last?
Seen in some vision counted vain,
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 pass'd away,
And fill'd her silver urn again, When in the devious chase to stray,
Afar from all his woodland train,
And, all to shun the fervid hour,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way,
Sought refuge from the fervid dayOh!-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,
The object of its former flame.
Had he, who, bound in Slumber's chain, Seem'd haply, o'er his hills to rove,
And wind his woodland chase again. She stood, but trembled-mingled fear,
And fond delight, and melting love, Sier'd all her soul; she came not near,
She came not near that fated grove.