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Ellen is not in princely bower,
Her pillow swells not deep with down,
For her no balms their sweets exhale: Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, Press'd by her lovely cheek as pale.
On that fair cheek, that flowing hair,
As the soft star of orient day,
When clouds involve his rosy light,
Returning life illumes her eye,
And slow its languid orb unfoldsWhat are those bloody arrows nigh? Sure bloody arrows she beholds!
What was the form so ghastly pale,
A shepherd of that gentler mind,
Some wanderer from his little fields.
Aghast he stands-and simple fear
O'er all his paly visage glides"Ah me! what means this misery here? "What fate this lady fair betides ?" He bears her to his friendly home,
When life, he finds, has but retired: With haste he frames the lover's tomb, For his is quite, is quite expired! XIII. "O hide me in thy humble bower," Returning late to life, she said; “I'll bind thy crook with many a flower; "With many a rosy wreath thy head. "Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove,
"And if my love asleep is laid, "Oh! wake him not; but softly move "Some pillow to that gentle head.
"Sure thou wilt know him, shepherd swain, "Thou know'st the sun rise o'er the sea"But, oh! no lamb in all thy train
"Was e'er so mild, so mild as he.
"His head is on the wood-moss laid;
"I did not wake his slumber deep"Sweet sings the redbreast o'er the shade”"Why, gentle lady, would you weep ?”
As flowers that fade in burning day,
But fiercer feel the noontide ray,
Returning in the flowing tear,
This lovely flower, more sweet than they, Found her fair soul, and wandering near, The stranger, Reason, cross'd her way. Found her fair soul-Ah! so to find,
Was but more dreadful grief to know!
Cannot be worth the wish of woe.
On melancholy's silent urn
No more return to Moray's halls.
The slow consuming hour she'll weep, Till nature seeks her last-left aid,
In the sad, sombrous arms of sleep,
"These jewels, all unmeet for me,
"Shalt thou," she said, "good shepherd, take: "These gems will purchase gold for thee, "And these be thine for Ellen's sake.
"So fail thou not, at eve and morn,
"The rosemary's pale bough to bring"Thou know'st where I was found forlorn"Where thou hast heard the redbreast sing.
"Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,
"Or aid thy shepherdess's care,
And now two longsome years are pass'd
Yet has she left one object dear,
By Carron's side a shepherd's boy,
He binds his vale-flowers with the reed;
XVI. But ah! no more his infant sleep
Closes beneath a mother's smile, Who only when it closed would weep, And yield to tender woe the while.. No more, with fond attention dear,
She seeks th' unspoken wish to find; No more shall she, with pleasure's tear, See the soul waxing into mind.
Where, worst of tyrants! is thy claim
The incommunicable mind!
Thy offspring are great Nature's-free,
Know, that each privilege is theirs.
The lord of Lothian's fertile vale,
Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand : Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale Was low laid by his ruffian-band. And Moray, with unfather'd eyes
Fix'd on fair Lothian's fertile dale, Attends his human sacrifice,
Without the Grecian painter's veil. O married love! thy bard shall own, Where two congenial souls unite, Thy golden chain's inlaid with down, Thy lamp's with heaven's own splendor bright.
But if no radiant star of love,
O Hymen! smile on thy fair rite,
And now has Time's slow wandering wing
Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed?