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That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
Then, shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how)
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
OWEN OF CARRON.
BY DR. LANGHORNE.
ON CARRON's side, the primrose pale,
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
The evening star sate in his
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,
There many a flowery race hath sprung,
Yet still, when May, with fragrant feet,
"Twas in the pride of William's days,
O! write not poor.-The wealth that flows,
TO ELLEN's charms, were earth and stone.
For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
And smoother Italy applied,
And many an English baron, brave.
In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
And England's honest valor fail'd,
"Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale,
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. She spoke, and vanish'd.-More unmoved Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest, The valiant youth by Ellen loved, With aught that fear or fate suggest.
For love, methinks, hath power to raise
"Twas when, on summer's softest eve,
When all the mountain gales were still,
Left his last smile on Lemmermore
Led by those waking dreams of thought,
That warm the young unpractised breast, Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought,
And Carron murmur'd near,and soothed her into rest. IV.
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,
A bower he framed, (for he could frame
Such bower he framed with magic hand,
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 ash that courts the mountain air,
In all her painted blooms array'd,
The wilding's blossom, blushing fair,
Combined to form the flowery shade.
With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast,
Was all the fairy ground bespread.
But who is he, whose locks so fair
Hast thou not found, at early dawn,
If o'er sweet vale, or flowery lawn,
Hast thou not some fair object seen,
And when the fleeting form was past,
Still on thy memory found its mein,
Thou hast and oft the pictured view,
And brought the long lost dream again.
With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear,.
He's ranging near yon mountain's head.