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That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
OWEN OF CARRON.
BY DR. LANGHORNE.
ON CARRON's side, the primrose pale,
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,
Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?
"Tis all with gentle OWEN's blood,
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,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Yet still, when May, with fragrant feet,
II. "Twas in the pride of William's days,
When Scotland's honors flourish'd still, That Moray's Earl, with mighty sway, Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill. And far for him their fruitful store
The fairest plains of Carron spread, In fortune rich, in offspring poor,
An only daughter crown'd his bed.
O! 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,
And many an English baron, brave.
In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
And England's honest valor 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 dimwood glen she broke,
And mounted on the moaning wind.
With aught that fear or fate suggest,
Left his last smile on Lemmermore
Led by those waking dreams of thought,
And Carron murmur'd near, and soothed her into rest.
There is some kind and courtly sprite,
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
"Tis told, and I believe the tale,
At this soft hour the sprite was there, And spread with fairer flowers the vale,
And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air. A bower he framed, (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 framed with magic hand,
Waved all the witcheries of love.
Yet was it wrought in simple 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; The woodbine lent her spicy charms,
That loves to weave the lover's bower.
The ash that courts the mountain air,
The wilding's blossom, blushing fair,
With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast,
Thy sweet seductive arts forbear)
Hast thou not found, at early dawn,
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, Still on thy memory found its mein, And felt the fond idea last?
Thou hast and oft the pictured view,
And brought the long lost dream again.
With locks adown his shoulders spread, Young Nithisdale is ranging near
He's ranging near yon mountain's head.