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HERE is something Ro

mantic in the Story of the following Poem; but the Author has his Reasons for believing that there is something likewise, Authentic. On the simple Circumstances of the ancient Narrative, from which He first borrowed his Idea, those Reasons are principally founded, and they are supported by others, with which, in a Work of this Kind, to trouble his Readers would be fuperfluous.

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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 food

From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sate in his eye, ,

The sun his golden treffes gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,

To him who refts in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,

Tho' nobly born, is Owen laid, Stretch'd on the green wond's lap alone,

He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,

And fled before the mountain gale, Since first his simple 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 sweet

Far echoed from each evening fold.

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