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But when that seal is first impreft,
When the young heart its pain thall try, For the soft, yielding, trembling breast,
Oft seems the startled soul to fly.
Yet fled not Owen 's--- wild amaze
In paleness cloath’d, and lifted hands, And horror's dread, untheaning gaze,
Mark the poor statue, as it Itands.
The fimple guardian of his life
Look'd wilful for the tear to glide, But when she saw his tearless strife,
Silent, she lent him one,--and died.
• 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 fed!
• O picture dear! for her lov'd fake
· How fondly could my-heart bewail ! • My friendly shepherdefs, '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 veep.'
Owen to Lothian's vale is fled
Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear.
Yes she is there : From idle state
Oft has the stole her hour to weep ; Think how she · by thy cradle sate,'
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.
O’er a fair fountain's smiling side
Reclin'd a dim tower clad with moss, Where every bird was wont lo bide,
That languish'd for his partner's lofs.
This scene he chose, this scene affign'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-
Ab! fafely pass yon dangerous door!
• 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.
* See the ancient Scottish Ballad, called
• She comez-Oh! Nomencircled round
o 'Tis some rude chief with many a spear. • My hapless tale that Earl lras 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.
'Tis o'er--those locks that wav'd in gold,
That wav'd adown those cheeks fo fair, Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,
Hang from the sever'd head in air. That streaming head he joys to bear
In borrid 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 pictur'd bracelet foon she knew,
And soon her lovely cheek grew pale.
The trembling victim, straight he led,
Ere! yet her soul's firft fear was o'er ; He pointed to the ghastly head
She saw-and funk, to rise no more.
By the Rev. Dr. Percy, Lord Bishop of Dromore, Éditor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.