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OWEN OF CARRON.

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N CARRON's fide 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 eye,
The fun his golden tresses gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,
To him who rests in yonder grave i

Beneath no high, historic ftone,
Tho' nobly born, is Owen laid,
Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,
He fleeps 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!

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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.

II.

''Twas in the pride of WILLIAM'S * Days,
When Scotland's honours flourished 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.

Oh! 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 ftone.

For her the Youth of Scotland figh'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 breaft beguile,
And England's honeft valour 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 mufic of the shade!

* William the Lyon, King of Scotland.

+ The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithisdale, and afterwards to the Earl Barnard, was esteemed one of the finest women in Europe, infomuch that she had feveral suitors and admirers from Foreign Courts.

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"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love "Alone to thy foft tale would yield ! " For foon those gentle arms shall prove "The conflict of a ruder field."

'Twas thus a wayward fister 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 unmov'd
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen lov'd

With aught that fear, or fate suggest.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise
The foul above a vulgar state;
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays
Controul our fears, and fix our fate.

II.

'Twas when, on fummer's foftest eve,
Of clouds that wander'd weft away,
Twilight with gentle hand did weave
Her fairy robe of night and day.

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the wave flept against the shore,
And the fun funk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lemmermore*.
Led by those waking dreams of thought
That warm the young unpractis'd breast,
Her wonted bower sweet Ellen fought,

And Carron murmur'd near, and footh'd her into rest.

* A chain of mountains running through Scotland from East to West.

:

IV.

There is some kind and courtly sprite,
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
Throws funshine on the mask of night,
And smiles at slumber's powerless chains;

'Tis told and I believe the tale,

At this foft hour the sprite was there, And fpread with fairer flowers the vale, And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air.

A bower he fram'd (for he could frame
What long might weary mortal wight:
Swift as the lightning's rapid flame.
Darts on the unsuspecting fight.)

Such bower he fram'd with magic hand
As well that wizzard bard hath wove,
In scenes where fair Armida's Wand
Wav'd all the witcheries of love.

Yet was it wrought in fimple shew;
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 rofe 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,
Combin'd to form the flowery shade.
With thyme that loves the brown hill's breaft,
The cowflip's sweet reclining head,

The violet of sky woven vest,

Was all the fairy ground bespread.

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