VII. Haft thou not feen fome azure gleam Thou haft and thou canft fancy well Silent they gaz'd-that filence broke ; Hail Goddefs of thefe Groves, he cried, O let me wear thy gentle yoke.' O let me in thy fervice bide. For thee I'll climb the mountain fteep, For thee O ftranger, cease,' she said, And fwift away, like Daphne, flew, But Daphne's flight was not delay'd By aught that to her bofom grew. 'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit, VIII. O love! within those golden vales, Where the fweet Smiles, the Graces dwell, Thy tale, O foul-fubduing love! Ah! wherefore fhould grim rage be nigh, Be near thy fair thy favour'd place? IX. Earl Barnard was of high degree, Had love, but not of gentle kind. From Moray's Halls her abfent hour He watch'd with all a Mifer's care : The wide Domain, the princely Dower Made Ellen more than Ellen fair. Ah wretch! to think the liberal foul Studious he marks her abfent hour, And red rage on his dark brow glows. For who is he?-'tis Nithisdale ! And that fair form with arm reclin'd On his 'tis Ellen of the vale, 'Tis She (O powers of vengeance!) kind. Should he that vengeance swift purfue? Moray would vanish from his view, Unfeen to Moray's Halls he hies- • What time ye mark from bower or glen, To distance due, and far from ken, • Then ranfack ftraight that range of groves.. Ye well can aim your arrows keen.' And now the ruffian flaves are nigh, Penfive, against yon poplar pale The lover leans his gentle heart, Revolving many a tender tale, And wondering ftill how they could part. Three arrow's pierc'd the defert air, Love's waking dream is loft in fleep- X. When all the mountain gales were still, Left his laft fmile on Lemmermore; 1 Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way Along the fairy-featur'd vale, Bright o'er his wave does Carron play, And foon fhe'll meet her Nithifdale. She'll meet him foon-for at her fight Swift as the mountain deer he fped; The evening fhades will fink in night,Where art thou, loitering lover, fled? O! She will chide thy trifling ftay, E'en now the foft reproach the frames : • Can lovers brook fuch long delay? Lovers that boat of ardent flames!' He comes not-weary with the chace, This is the bower-we'll foftly tread- XI. Ellen is not in princely bower, Her pillow fwells not deep with down, On that fair cheek, that flowing hair, Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. As the foft ftar of orient Day, Returning life illumes her eye, And flow its languid orb unfolds What are thofe bloody arrows nigh? Sure, bloody arrows fhe beholds ! What was the form fo ghaftly pale, XII. The morn is on the mountains spread, A fhepherd of that gentler mind, Aghaft he ftands-and fimple fear He bears her to his friendly home, |