Ah lovely youth! thy tender lay

May not thy gentle life prolong; See'ft'thou yon nightingale a prey;

The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song ?

His little heart is large with love:

He sweetly hails his evening star, And Fate's more pointed arrows move, Insidious from his




The shepherdess, whose kindly care

Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath, Must now their silent manfions thare,

Whom time leads calmly down to death.

• O tell me parent if thou art,

• What is this, lovely picture dear? * Why wounds its mournful eye my heart,

Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear

• Ah! youth! to leave thee loth am I,

« Tho' I be not thy parent dear ; • And woud'ft thou wish, or ere I die,

· The story of thy birth to hear ?

But it will make thee much bewail, • And it will make thy fair


fwellShe said, and told the woesome tale,

As footh as shepherdess might tell.


The lieart, that forrow doom'd to share,

Has worn the frequent seal of woe, Its sad impreslions learns to bear,

And finds full oft, its ruin flow.

But when that seal is first impreft,

When the young heart its pain shall try, For the soft, yielding, trembling breaft,

Oft seems the startled foul to fly.

Yet fed not Owen's-wild amaze

In paleness cloath'd, and lifted hands, And horror's dread, unmeaning gaze,

Mark the poor statue, as it flands.

The simple guardian of his life

Look'd wistful for the tear to glide, But when the 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 fled!

• O picture dear! for her lov'd fake • How fondly could my

heart bewail ! · My friendly shepherders, O wake,

And tell me more of this fad 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 weep.'


Owen to Lothian's vale is Aed

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear • O art thou there,' the full heart said,

O! art thou there, my parent dear?'


Yes she is there : From idle státe

Oft has the stole her hour to weep; Think how she by thy cradle fate,'

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 fide :

Reclin'd a dim tower clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide,

That languilh'd for his partner's lofs. This scene he chofe, 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-
Ah! may they not unprosperous prove !

Ah! safely 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,

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* See the ancient Scottish Ballad, called

Gill Morrice.

• She comes-Oh! Nomencircled round

'Tis some rude chief with many a spear. My hapless tale that Earl has 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 so 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 thefe-Ellen of the vale, The pictur'd bracelet foon she knew,

And foon 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.

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By the Rev. Dr. Percy, Lord Bishop of Dromore,
Éditor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.


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