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That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then, shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how)
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes:

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,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but-
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut!




ON CARRON's side, the primrose pale,
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


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 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,
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 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. 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
The soul above a vulgar state!
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays
Control our fears, and fix our fate.


"Twas when, on summer's softest eve,
Of clouds that wander'd west away,
Twilight with gentle hand did weave
Her fairy robe of night and day-

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the wave slept against the shore,
And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,

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,
Throws sunshine on the mask of night,
And smiles at slumber's powerless chains :

"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,
As well that wizard bard hath wove,
In scene where fair Armida's wand
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,

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,
The cowslip's sweet reclining head,
The violet of sky woven vest,

Was all the fairy ground bespread.

But who is he, whose locks so fair
Adown his manly shoulders flow?
Beside him lies the hunter's spear,
Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow.
He bends to Ellen-(gentle sprite,
Thy sweet seductive arts forbear)
He courts her arms with fond delight,
And instant vanishes in air.


Hast thou not found, at early dawn,
Some soft ideas melt away,

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,
Seen in some vision counted vain,
Has struck thy wondering eye anew,

And brought the long lost dream again.

With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear,.
With locks adown his shoulders spread,
Young Nithisdale is ranging near-

He's ranging near yon mountain's head.

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