X.

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the wave slept against the shore,
And the sun sunk beneath the hill,
Left his last smile on Lammermore;

Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way
Along the fairy-featured vale:
Bright o'er his wave does Carron play,
And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale.

She'll meet him soon-for, at her sight,
Swift as the mountain deer he sped;
The evening shades will sink in night-
Where art thou, loitering lover, fled?
Oh! she will chide thy trifling stay,
E'en now the soft reproach she frames:
"Can lovers brook such long delay?

Lovers that boast of ardent flames!"
He comes not-weary with the chase,
Soft slumber o'er his eyelids throws
Her vail-we'll steal one dear embrace,
We'll gently steal on his repose.

This is the bower-we'll softly tread-
He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale-
Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled,

Thy heart will far forego my tale!

ΧΙ.

Ellen is not in princely bower,

She's not in Moray's splendid train;
Their mistress dear at midnight hour,
Her weeping maidens seek in vain.

Her pillow swells not deep with down;
For her no balms their sweets exhale :
Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown,
Press'd by her lovely cheek as pale.

On that fair cheek, that flowing hair,

The broom its yellow leaf hath shed, And the chill mountain's early air

Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. As the soft star of orient day,

When clouds involve his rosy light, Darts through the gloom a transient ray, And leaves the world once more to night;

Returning life illumes her eye,

And slow its languid orb unfolds,What are those bloody arrows nigh? Sure, bloody arrows she beholds! What was that form so ghastly pale,

That low beneath the poplar lay?— "Twas some poor youth-"Ah, Nithisdale !" She said, and silent sunk away.

XII.

The morn is on the mountains spread, The woodlark trills his liquid strainCan morn's sweet music rouse the dead? Give the set eye its soul again?

A shepherd of that gentler mind

Which nature not profusely yields, Seeks in these lonely shades to find Some wanderer from his little fields. Aghast he stands-and simple fear O'er all his paly visage glides"Ah me! what means this misery here? What fate this lady fair betides ?" He bears her to his friendly home,

When life, he finds, has but retired:With haste he frames the lover's tomb For his is quite, is quite expired!

XIII

"O hide me in thy humble bower,"
Returning late to life, she said;
"I'll bind thy crook with many a flower;
With many a rosy wreath thy head.
"Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove,
And, if my love asleep is laid,
Oh! wake him not; but softly move
Some pillow to that gentle head.
"Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain,
Thou know'st the sun-rise o'er the sea-
But oh! no lamb in all thy train

Was e'er so mild, so mild as he."
"His head is on the wood-moss laid;
I did not wake his slumber deep-
Sweet sings the redbreast o'er the shade-
Why, gentle lady, would you weep?"
As flowers that fade in burning day,

At evening find the dew-drop dear,
But fiercer feel the noontide ray,

When soften'd by the nightly tear; Returning in the flowing tear,

This lovely flower, more sweet than they, Found her fair soul, and, wand'ring near, The stranger, reason, cross'd her way. Found her fair soul-Ah! so to find

Was but more dreadful grief to know!
Ah! sure the privilege of mind
Cannot be worth the wish of woe!

XIV.

On melancholy's silent urn

A softer shade of sorrow falls,
But Ellen can no more return,
No more return to Moray's halls.
Beneath the low and lonely shade

The slow-consuming hour she'll weep,
Till nature seeks her last left aid,

In the sad sombrous arms of sleep.

"These jewels, all unmeet for me,

Shalt thou," she said, "good shepherd, take; These gems will purchase gold for thee, And these be thine for Ellen's sake.

"So fail thou not, at eve or morn,

The rosemary's pale bough to bringThou know'st where I was found forlorn

Where thou hast heard the redbreast sing.

"Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while,

Or aid thy shepherdess's care, For I will share her humble toil, And I her friendly roof will share.”

XV.

And now two longsome years are past
In luxury of lonely pain-
The lovely mourner, found at last,
To Moray's halls is borne again.

Yet has she left one object dear,

That wears love's sunny eye of joyIs Nithisdale reviving here?

Or is it but a shepherd's boy?

By Carron's side a shepherd's boy?

He binds his vale-flowers with the reed; He wears love's sunny eye of joy,

And birth he little seems to heed.

XVI.

But ah! no more his infant sleep

Closes beneath a mother's smile, Who, only when it closed, would weep, And yield to tender woe the while.

No more, with fond attention dear,

She seeks th' unspoken wish to find; No more shall she, with pleasure's tear, See the soul waxing into mind.

XVII.

Does nature bear a tyrant's breast? Is she the friend of stern control? Wears she the despot's purple vest? Or fetters she the free-born soul?

Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim
In chains thy children's breast to bind?
Gavest thou the Promethean flame?
The incommunicable mind?

Thy offspring are great nature's-free,
And of her fair dominion heirs;
Each privilege she gives to thee;

Know that each privilege is theirs.

They have thy feature, wear thine eye,
Perhaps some feelings of thy heart;
And wilt thou their loved hearts deny
To act their fair, their proper part?

XVIII.

The lord of Lothian's fertile vale,
Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand;
Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale
Was low laid by his ruffian band.
And Moray, with unfather'd eyes,

Fix'd on fair Lothian's fertile dale,
Attends his human sacrifice,

Without the Grecian painter's veil. O married love! thy bard shall own, Where two congenial souls unite, Thy golden chain inlaid with down,

Thy lamp with heaven's own splendour bright.

But if no radiant star of love,

O Hymen! smile on thy fair rite, Thy chain a wretched weight shall prove, Thy lamp a sad sepulchral light.

ΧΙΧ.

And now has time's slow wandering wing Borne many a year unmark'd with speedWhere is the boy by Carron's spring,

Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed?
Ah me! those flowers he binds no more;
No early charm returns again;
The parent, nature, keeps in store
Her best joys for her little train.

No longer heed the sunbeam bright
That plays on Carron's breast he can,
Reason has lent her quiv'ring light,
And shown the chequer'd field of man.

XX.

As the first human heir of earth

With pensive eye himself survey'd, And, all unconscious of his birth,

Sat thoughtful oft in Eden's shade; In pensive thought so Owen stray'd

Wild Carron's lonely woods among, And once within their greenest glade, He fondly framed this simple song:

66

ΧΧΙ.

Why is this crook adorn'd with gold?
Why am I tales of ladies told?
Why does no labour me employ,
If I am but a shepherd's boy?

"A silken vest like mine so green

In shepherd's hut I have not seen—
Why should I in such vesture joy,
If I am but a shepherd's boy'
"I know it is no shepherd's art
His written meaning to impart―
They teach me sure an idle toy,
If I am but a shepherd's boy.

"This bracelet bright that binds my arm-
It could not come from shepherd's farm;
It only would that arm annoy,
If I were but a shepherd's boy.
"And oh thou silent picture fair,
That lovest to smile upon me there,
Oh say, and fill my heart with joy,
That I am not a shepherd's boy."

XXII.

Ah, lovely youth thy tender lay
May not thy gentle life prolong:
Seest 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 eye afar.

The shepherdess, whose kindly care
Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath,
Must now their silent mansions share,
Whom time leads calmly down to death.

"Oh 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,

Though I be not thy parent dear;
And wouldst 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 eye swell—”
She said, and told the woesome tale,
As sooth as shepherdess might tell.

XXIV.

The heart that sorrow doom'd to share Has worn the frequent seal of woe,

Its sad impressions learn to bear,

And finds full oft its ruin slow.

But when that seal is first imprest,

When the young heart its pain shall try, From the soft, yielding, trembling breast, Oft seems the startled soul to fly: Yet fled not Owen's-wild amaze

In paleness clothed, and lifted hands, And horror's dread unmeaning gaze, Mark the poor statue as it stands.

The simple guardian of his life

Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But, when she saw his tearless strife, Silent, she lent him one-and died.

Yes, she is there: from idle state
Oft has she stole her hour to weep;
Think how she "by thy cradle sat,"
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.

XXVII.

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side Reclined a dim tower, clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide,

That languish'd for its partner's loss. This scene he chose, this scene assign'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 boreAh! may they not unprosperous prove! Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!

XXVIII.

"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.

"She comes-Oh! no-encircled round, 'Tis some rude chief with many a spear. My hapless tale that earl has foundAh 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.

XXV.

"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!

"Oh picture dear!-for her loved sake How fondly could my heart bewail! My friendly shepherdess, oh wake,

And tell me more of this sad tale:

"Oh 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."

XXVI.

Owen to Lothian's vale is fled

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear"Oh! art thou there?" the full heart said,

"Oh! art thou there, my parent dear?"

ΧΧΙΧ.

"Tis o'er-those locks that waved in gold,
That waved adown those cheeks so fair,
Wreathed in the gloomy tyrant's hold,
Hang from the sever'd head in air!

That streaming head he joys to bear
In horrid guise to Lothian's halls!
Bids his grim ruffians place it there,
Erect upon the frowning walls.

The fatal tokens forth he drew

66 Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale?" The pictured bracelet soon she knew, And soon her lovely cheek grew pale.

The trembling victim straight he led,
Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er:
He pointed to the ghastly head-

She saw-and sunk to rise no more.

THE history of Penrose displays a dash of warlike adventure, which has seldom enlivened the biography of our poets. He was not led to the profession of arms, like Gascoigne, by his poverty, or like Quarles, Davenant, and Waller, by political circumstances; but in a mere fit of juvenile ardour, gave up his studies at Oxford, where he was preparing to become a clergyman, and left the banners of the church for those of the battle. This was in the summer of 1762, when the unfortunate expedition against Buenos Ayres sailed under the command of Captain Macnamara. It consisted of three ships: the Lord Clive, of 64 guns; the Ambuscade of 40, on board of which Penrose acted as lieutenant of marines; the Gloria, of 38, and some inferior vessels. Preparatory to an attack on Buenos Ayres, it was deemed necessary to begin with the capture of Nova Colonia, and the ships approached closely to the fortress of that settlement. The men were in high spirits; military music sounded on board; while the new uniforms and polished arms of the marines gave a splendid appearance to the scene. Penrose, the night before, had written and despatched to his mistress in England a poetical address, which evinced at once the affection and serenity of his heart, on the eve of danger. The gay preparative was followed by a heavy fire of several hours, at the end of which, when the Spanish batteries were almost silenced, and our countrymen in immediate expectation of seeing

THE HELMETS. A FRAGMENT.

"TWAS midnight-every mortal eye was closed Through the whole mansion-save an antique crone's,

That o'er the dying embers faintly watch'd
The broken sleep (fell harbinger of death)
Of a sick boteler.-Above indeed,
In a drear gallery, (lighted by one lamp
Whose wick the poor departing Seneschal
Did closely imitate,) paced slow and sad
The village curate, waiting late to shrive
The penitent when 'wake. Scarce show'd the ray
To fancy's eye, the portray'd characters
That graced the wall-On this and t' other side
Suspended, nodded o'er the steepy stair,
In many a trophy form'd, the knightly group
Of helms and targets, gauntlets, maces strong,
And horses' furniture-brave monuments
Of ancient chivalry.-Through the stain'd pane
Low gleam'd the moon-not bright--but of such
power

As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over head,

Full mischief-fraught;-from these in many a peal Growl'd the near thunder-flashed the frequent

blaze

76

the enemy strike his colours, the Lord Clive was found to be on fire; and the same moment which discovered the flames showed the impossibility of extinguishing them. A dreadful spectacle was then exhibited. Men, who had, the instant before, assured themselves of wealth and conquest, were seen crowding to the sides of the ship, with the dreadful alternative of perishing by fire or water. The enemy's fire was redoubled at the sight of their calamity. Out of Macnamara's crew of 340 men, only 78 were saved. Penrose escaped with his life on board the Ambuscade, but received a wound in the action; and the subsequent hardships which he underwent, in a prize-sloop, in which he was stationed, ruined the strength of his constitution. He returned to England; resumed his studies at Oxford; and having taken orders, accepted of the curacy of Newbury, in Berkshire, of which his father was the rector. He resided there for nine years, having married the lady already alluded to, whose name was Mary Slocock. A friend at last rescued him from this obscure situation, by presenting him with the rectory of Beckington and Standerwick, in Somersetshire, worth about 500l. a year. But he came to his preferment too late to enjoy it. His health having never recovered from the shock of his American service, obliged him, as a last remedy, to try the hot wells at Bristol, at which place he expired, in his thirtysixth year.

Of lightning blue.-While round the fretted dome
The wind sung surly: with unusual clank
The armour shook tremendous:-On a couch
Placed in the oriel, sunk the churchman down:
For who, alone, at that dread hour of night,
Could bear portentous prodigy?

"I hear it," cries the proudly gilded casque, (Fill'd by the soul of one, who erst took joy In slaught'rous deeds,) "I hear amidst the gale The hostile spirit shouting-once-once more In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shineThere will be work anon."

Shall share the bloody toil-War-worn am I,
Bored by a happier mace, I let in fate
To my once master, since unsought, unused,
Pensile I'm fix'd-yet, too, your gaudy pride
Has naught to boast,-the fashion of the fight
Has thrown your guilt and shady plumes aside
For modern foppery ;-still do not frown,
Nor lower indignantly your steely brows,
We've comfort left enough-The bookman's lore
Shall trace our sometime merit;-in the eye
Of antiquary taste we long shall shine:
And as the scholar marks our rugged front,
He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincourt:
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers,
He'll venerate their shell.-Yet more than this,
From our inactive station we shall hear
The groans of butcher'd brothers, shrieking plaints
Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic howls;
Already hovering o'er the threaten'd lands
The famish'd raven snuffs the promised feast,
And hoarselier croaks for blood-'twill flow."
"Forbid it, Heaven!

Oh shield my suffering country!-Shield it,"

pray'd

The agonizing priest.

THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar
Distant down the hollow wind;
Panting Terror fled before,

Wounds and death were left behind.

The war-fiend cursed the sunken day,

That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon; While, scarcely lighting to the prey,

Low hung, and lour'd the bloody moon.

The field, so late the hero's pride,

Was now with various carnage spread; And floated with a crimson tide,

That drench'd the dying and the dead.

O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,
Maria, Sorrow's early child;

By duty led, for every vein

Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame;
With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main
She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.
For well she thought, a friend so dear

In darkest hours might joy impart;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,

Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart.
Though look'd for long-in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye,
She heard the signal for the fight-
While her soul trembled in a sigh-

She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious stay;
His manly heart the charm confess'd-
Then broke the charm,--and rush'd away.
Too soon in few-but deadly words,
Some flying straggler breathed to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.

She press'd to hear-she caught the tale-
At every sound her blood congeal'd;-
With terror bold--with terror pale,

She sprung to search the fatal field.

O'er the sad scene in dire amaze

She went-with courage not her ownOn many a corpse she cast her gazeAnd turn'd her ear to many a groan.

Drear anguish urged her to press

Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd;-Of comfort glad, the drear caress

The damp, chill, dying hand return'd.

Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled-
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half-buried with the hostile dead,

And gored with many a grisly wound.

She knew she sunk-the night-bird scream'd, -The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair,-though fall'n she seem'dTo worse than death-and deepest night.*

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eyes below;

There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art,

[* Mr. Campbell in his Adelgitha, and above all in his Wounded Hussar, has given a vigorous echo of this poem of Penrose's, which wants little to rank it high among our ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza but two is very fine:

Drear anguish urged her to press.]