In all the pride of youthful charms,

A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless,

And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears,
At once the source of rapture and distress,
The flattering prop of my declining years!
In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,

By ev'ry art that science could devise; Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,

And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies. Then, oh! our comforts be the same,

At evening's peaceful hour,

To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame,
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bow'r.

But why, alas! to thee complain,

To thee-unconscious of my pain?.

Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:

The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,
Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy love.
But, oh! for me in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears:
Deploring still the comfort of my soul,

I count my sorrows by increasing years.

Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promis'd period of my woes?
Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away,
And yet I weep, a stranger to repose:

O what delusion did thy tongue employ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love,

Her last bequest, with all a mother's care,
The bitterness of sorrow should remove,
Soften the horrors of despair,

And cheer a heart long lost to joy!"

How oft, when fondling in my arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,

My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms! And oh what flattering scenes had fancy feign'd! How did I rave of blessings yet in store! Till ev'ry aching sense was sweetly pain'd,

And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more.

"Just Heaven!" I cried, with recent hopes elate, "Yet will I live-will live, tho' Emma's dead; So long bow'd down beneath the storms of fate, Yet will I raise my woe.dejected head!

My little Emma, now my all,

Will want a father's care;

Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recal,
And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear:
And oft together we'll complain,

Complaint the only bliss my soul can know. From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe.

And, oh! in that auspicious hour,

When Fate resigns her persecuting pow'r, With duteous zeal her hand shall close,

No more to weep, my sorrow-streaming eyes, When death gives misery repose,

And opes a glorious passage to the skies."

Vain thought! it must not be-she too is dead; The flatt'ring scene is o'er;

My hopes for ever, ever fled;

And vengeance can no more.

Crush'd by misfortune, blasted by disease,
And none-none left to bear a friendly part!
To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,
Or soothe the anguish of an aching heart!
Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome death,
With lenient hand (oh falsely deem'd severe),
Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up ev'ry tear.

Perhaps, obsequious to my will,

But, ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The last sad office strangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;

As if, unconscious of poetic fire,

I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.

Yet, while this weary life shall last,

While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain,

In piteous accents shall the muse complain,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:
For oh how grateful to a wounded heart,
The tale of misery to impart!

From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow,
And raise esteem upon the base of woe!
Even He, the noblest of the tuneful throng,
Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear,
Shall catch the soft contagion of my song,

And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear.

• Lord Lyttelton.

JOHN LANGHORNE.

OWEN OF CARRON.

N Carron's side the primrose pale,

ΟΝ

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,
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,
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, 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 assail'd,

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

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;
The' unconquer'd banners he displays
Control our fears, and fix our fate.