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The simple guardian of his life
Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But, when she saw his tearless strife,
Silent, she leut him one,--and died.
XXV. *No, I am not a shepherd's boy,'
Awaking from his dream, he said,
Of this l--for ever, ever fled!
How Adly could my heart bewail! My friendly shepherdess, O wake,
And tell me more of this sad tale. .O tell me more of this sad tale
No; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep! And I will go to Lothian's vale,
And more than all her waters weep.'
XXVI. Owen to Lothian's vale is filed...
Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear... *O! art thou there;' the full heart said,
"O! art thou there, my parent dear?' Yes, she is there : from idle state
Oft has she stole her hour to weep; Think how she by thy cradle sate,'
And how she ‘fondly saw thee sleep.' Now tries his trembling band to frame
Full many a tender line of love ; And still he blots the parent's name,
For that, he fears, might fatal prove.
Reclin'd a dim tower, clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide,
That languish'd for its partner's loss :
This scene he chose, this scene assign'd
A parent's first embrace to wait,
Anxious for his fond letter's fate.
The well-informing bracelet bore.
Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear• Whatever filial love could say,
To her I said, and call'd her dear. • She comes--Oh! no encircled round
'Tis some rude chief with many a spear: My hapless tale that earl has found
Ah me! my heart !---for her I fear.' His tender tale that earl had read,
Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye, His dark brow wears a cloud of red, In rage he deems a rival nigh.
XXIX. 'Tis o'er those locks that wav'd in gold,
That wav'd adown those cheeks so fair, Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,
Hang from the sever'd head in air ; That streaming head he joys to bear
In horrid guise to Lothian's halls ; Bids his grim ruffians place it there,
Erect upon the frowning walls. The fatal tokens forth le drew...
• Kpow'st thou these - Ellen of the vale?' The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew,
And soon her lovely cheek grew pale.... The trembling victim straight he led,
Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er : He pointed to the ghastly head
She saw and sunk, to rise no more.
TO MISS SLOCOCK,
OF NEWBURY, BERKS,
Written on board the Ambuscade, Jan. 6th. 1763, a short time before the attack of Nova Colonia do
Sacramento, in the river of Plate. THE Fates ordain, we must obey;
This, this is doom'd to be the day ;
The hour of war draws near: The eager crew with busy care Their instruments of death prepare,
And banish every fear.
The martial trumpets call to arms,
As Britons only know:
With terror strikes the foe.
Amidst this nobly awful scene,
Ere Death his conquests swell;
Perhaps, my last farewell :
For since, full low among the dead,
Ere this day's work be o'er;
Shall see it set no more.
My love, that ever burnt so true,
My heart's fond, best desire!
With life's last pang expire.
And when, dear maid, my fate you hear, (Sure love like mine demands one tear,
Demands one heart-felt sigh) My past sad errors, O forgive! Let my few virtues only live,
My follies with me die.
But hark! the voice of battle calls;
Now roars the hostile gun ;
Thy will, O God, be done!
ELEGY ON LEAVING THE RIVER OF PLATE,
mento, by the Lord Clive of 64 guns, the Ambuscade
Ere yon blue hills sink ever from my view;
And take of them my long, my last adieu !
By war's sad chance beneath whose nuddy wave
Beneath thy tide, ah! silent now they roll,
Or strew with mangled limbs thy sandy shore; The trumpet's call no more awakes their soul!
The battle's voice they now shall hear no more! In vain the constant wife and feeble sire,
Expectant, wish their lov'd return to see ; In vain their infant's lisping tongues inquire,
And wait the story on their father's knee.
Ah! nought avails their anxious, busy care ;
Far, far they lie, on hostile seas they fell; The wife's, sire's, infant's joy, no more to share,
The tale of glorious deeds no more to tell.
Learn then, ye Fair, for others' woes to feel,
Let the soft tear bedew the sparkling eye; When the brave perish for their country's weal,
'Tis pity's debt to heave the heartfelt sigh. Ah! glorious Drake! far other lot was thine,
Fate gave to thee to quell the hostile pride; To seize the treasures of Potosi's mine,
And sail triumphant o'er La Plata's tide. But Providence, on secret wonders bent,
Conceals its purposes from mortal view; And Heaven, no doubt with some all-wise intent,
Denied to numbers what it gave to few.