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T

HERE is fomething Romantic in the Story of the following POEM; but the Author has his Reasons for believing that there is something likewise, Authentic. On the fimple Circumftances of the ancient Narrative, from which He firft borrowed his Idea, thofe Reafons are principally founded, and they are supported by others, with which, in a Work of this Kind, to trouble his Readers would be fuperfluous.

OWEN OF CARRON.

OWEN

Ο

N CARRON's fide the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue?

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why ftream 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 ftar fate in his eye,
The fun his golden treffes gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,
To him who refts in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, hiftoric ftone,
Tho' nobly born, is OWEN laid,
Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,
He fleeps beneath the waving fhade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his fimple dirge ye fung;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!

Yet ftill, when May with fragrant feet
Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold,

That Dirge I hear fo fimply fweet
Far echoed from each evening fold.

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