The shepherdess, whose kindly care

Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath, Must now their silent mansions share, Whom time leads calmly down to death.

"O tell me, parent if thou art,

What is this lovely picture dear? Why wounds its mournful eye my heart? Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear?”

"Ah, youth! to leave thee loth am I,

Though I be not thy parent dear;
And wouldst thou wish, or ere I die,
The story of thy birth to hear?

"But it will make thee much bewail,
And it will make thy fair eye swell—”
She said, and told the woesome tale,
As sooth as shepherdess might tell.

XXIV.

The heart that sorrow doom'd to share
Has worn the frequent seal of woe,
Its sad impressions learns to bear,
And finds full oft its ruin slow.

But when that seal is first imprest,
When the young heart its pain shall try,
From the soft, yielding, trembling breast,
Oft seems the startled soul to fly :
Yet fled not Owen's-wild amaze

In paleness clothed, and lifted hands,
And horror's dread unmeaning gaze,
Mark the poor statue as it stands.

The simple guardian of his life

Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But, when she saw his tearless strife,

Silent, she lent him one-and died.

XXV.

"No, I am not a shepherd's boy," Awaking from his dream, he said: "Ah, where is now the promised joy Of this for ever, ever fled!

"O picture dear !—for her loved sake How fondly 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 fled

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear— "O! art thou there?" the full heart sail. "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 sat,"

And how she "fondly saw thee sleep." Now tries his trembling hand to frame Full many a tender line of love; And still he blots the parent's name,

For that, he fears, might fatal prove.

XXVII.

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side Reclined 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, And many a soft fear fill'd his mind,

Anxious for his fond letter's fate.

The hand that bore those lines of love,
The well-informing bracelet bore-
Ah! may they not unprosperous prove!
Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!

XXVIII.

"She comes not ;-can she then delay !" 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 waved in gold, That waved adown those cheeks so fair, Wreathed 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 he drew-
"Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale ?"
The pictured 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.

THE history of Penrose displays a dash of warlike adventure, which has seldom enlivened the biography of our poets. He was not led to the profession of arms, like Gascoigne, by his poverty, or like Quarles, Davenant, and Waller, by political circumstances; but, in a mere fit of juvenile ardour, gave up his studies at Oxford, where he was preparing to become a clergyman, and left the banners of the church for those of the battle. This was in the summer of 1762, when the unfortunate expedition against Buenos Ayres sailed under the command of Captain Macnamara. It consisted of three ships: the Lord Clive, of 64 guns; the Ambuscade of 40, on board of which Penrose acted as lieutenant of marines; the Gloria, of 38; and some inferior vessels. Preparatory to an attack on Buenos Ayres, it was deemed necessary to begin with the capture of Nova Colonia, and the ships approached closely to the fortress of that settlement. The men were in high spirits; military music sounded on board; while the new uniforms and polished arms of the marines gave a splendid appearance to the scene. Penrose, the night before, had written and despatched to his mistress in England a poetical address, which evinced at once the affection and serenity of his heart, on the eve of danger. The gay preparative was followed by a heavy fire of several hours, at the end of which, when the Spanish batteries were almost silenced, and our countrymen in immediate expectation of seeing

the enemy strike his colours, the Lord Clive was found to be on fire; and the same moment which discovered the flames showed the impossibility of extinguishing them. A dreadful spectacle was then exhibited. Men, who had, the instant before, assured themselves of wealth and conquest, were seen crowding to the sides of the ship, with the dreadful alternative of perishing by fire or water. The enemy's fire was redoubled at the sight of their calamity. Out of Macnamara's crew, of 340 men, only 78 were saved. Penrose escaped with his life on board the Ambuscade, but received a wound in the action; and the subsequent hardships which he underwent, in a prize-sloop, in which he was stationed, ruined the strength of his constitution. He returned to England; resumed his studies at Oxford; and having taken orders, accepted of the curacy of Newbury, in Berkshire, of which his father was the rector. He resided there for nine years, having married the lady already alluded to, whose name was Mary Slocock. A friend at last rescued him from this obscure situation, by presenting him with the rectory of Beckington and Standerwick, in Somersetshire, worth about 5007. a year. But he came to his preferment too late to enjoy it. His health having never recovered from the shock of his American service, obliged him, as a last remedy, to try the hot wells at Bristol, at which place he expired, in his thirty-sixth year.

'Twas midnight-every mortal eye was closed Through the whole mansion. -save an antique crone's,

That o'er the dying embers faintly watch'd
The broken sleep (fell harbinger of death,)
Of a sick boteler.-Above indeed,
In a drear gallery (lighted by one lamp
Whose wick the poor departing Seneschal
Did closely imitate), paced slow and sad

The village curate, waiting late to shrive
The penitent when 'wake. Scarce show'd the ray
To fancy's eye, the portray'd characters
That graced the wall-On this and t' other side
Suspended, nodded o'er the steepy stair,
In many a trophy form'd, the knightly group
Of helms and targets, gauntlets, maces strong,
And horses' furniture-brave monuments
Of ancient chivalry.-Through the stain'd pane

Low gleam'd the moon-not bright-but of such power

As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over head,
Full mischief-fraught;-from these in many a peal
Growl'd the near thunder-flash'd the frequent blaze
Of lightning blue.-While round the fretted dome
The wind sung surly with unusual clank
The armour shook tremendous:-On a couch
Placed in the oriel, sunk the churchman down:
For who, alone, at that dread hour of night,
Could bear portentous prodigy?—

"I hear it," cries the proudly gilded casque, (Fill'd by the soul of one, who erst took joy In slaught'rous deeds,) " I hear amidst the gale The hostile spirit shouting-once-once more In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shineThere will be work anon."

"I'm 'waken'd too,"

Replied the sable helmet (tenanted
By a like inmate), " Hark!—I hear the voice
Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling range
Yon summit (crown'd with ruin'd battlements
The fruits of civil discord,) to the din

The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile,
All join their yell-the song is war and death--
There will be work anon."

"Call armourers, ho!

Furbish my vizor-close my rivets up-
I brook no dallying'

"Soft, my hasty friend,"

Said the black beaver, "Neither of us twain
Shall share the bloody toil-War-worn am I,
Bored by a happier mace, I let in fate

To my once master,-since unsought, unused,
Pensile I'm fix'd-yet too your gaudy pride
Has nought to boast, the fashion of the fight
Has thrown your gilt and shady plumes aside
For modern foppery ;-still do not frown,
Nor lower indignantly your steely brows,
We've comfort left enough-The bookman's lore
Shall trace our sometime merit ;-in the eye
Of antiquary taste we long shall shine :
And as the scholar marks our rugged front,
He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincourt:
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers,
He'll venerate their shell.-Yet, more than this,
From our inactive station we shall hear
The groans of butcher'd brothers, shrieking plaints
Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic howls;
Already hovering o'er the threaten'd lands
The famish'd raven snuffs the promised feast,
And hoarselier croaks for blood-'twill flow."
"Forbid it, Heaven!

O shield my suffering country!-Shield it," pray'd
The agonising priest.

THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar
Distant down the hollow wind;

Panting Terror fled before,

Wounds and death were left behind.

The war-fiend cursed the sunken day,

That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon;
While, scarcely lighting to the prey,
Low hung, and lour'd the bloody moon.
The field, so late the hero's pride,
Was now with various carnage spread;
And floated with a crimson tide,

That drench'd the dying and the dead.
O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,

Maria, Sorrow's early child;

By duty led, for every vein

Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame ; With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main

She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.
For well she thought, a friend so dear

In darkest hours might joy impart ;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart.
Though look'd for long-in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye,)
She heard the signal for the fight-

While her soul trembled in a sigh-
She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious stay;
His manly heart the charm confess'd-
Then broke the charm,—and rush'd away.
Too soon in few-but deadly words,

Some flying straggler breathed to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.

She press'd to hear-she caught the tale
At every sound her blood congeal'd ;—
With terror bold-with terror pale,

She sprung to search the fatal field.
O'er the sad scene in dire amaze

She went-with courage not her ownOn many a corpse she cast her gaze

And turn'd her ear to many a groan. Drear anguish urged her to press

Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd ;-Of comfort glad, the drear caress

The damp, chill, dying hand return'd. Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled_ When late pale Edgar's form she found, Half-buried with the hostile dead,

And gored with many a grisly wound.

She knew she sunk-the night-bird scream'd -The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair,-though fall'n she seem'dTo worse than death-and deepest night. [* Mr. Campbell, in his Adelgitha, and above all in ta Wounded Hussar, has given a vigorous echo of this poet of Penrose's, which wants little to rank it high among our ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza bui two is very fine:

Drear anguish urged her to press.]

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms with awful bend
In long cathedral walks extend !
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How bless'd my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along:
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,

These scenes must charm me now no more.
Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-
Farewell!-a long, a last adieu.
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw:
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose Revelry, and Riot bold
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you,
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu !

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self, must please:
Instead of these a formal band,

In furs and coifs, around me stand;

With sounds uncouth and accents dry,

That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store

Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding close retreat,
Is justice doom'd to fix her seat ;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe ;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queens, is more admired.

O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverent awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end:
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades, and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all !
Thus though my noon of life be pass'd,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe,
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe ;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour, and my conscience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend.