"And O thou silent picture fair, XXII. Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay The fierce hawk hov'ring o'er his song? His little heart is large with love: The shepherdess, whose kindly care "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, Though I be not thy parent dear; "And would'st thou wish, or ere I die, "The story of thy birth to hear? "But it will make thee much bewail, The heart that sorrow doom'd to share But when that seal is first imprest, Yet fled not Owen's-wild amaze In paleness cloth'd, 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. XXV. "No, I am not a shepherd's boy," Awaking from his dream, he said: "Ah, where is now the promis'd joy "Of this?-for ever, ever fled! "O picture dear!-for her lov'd sake "How fondly could my heart bewail ! "My friendly shepherdess; O wake, "And tell me more of this sad tale : "O tell me more of this sad tale- "And more than all her waters weep." Owen to Lothian's vale is fled 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 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 O'er a fair fountain's smiling side That languish'd for its partner's loss. This scene he chose, this scene assign'd The hand that bore those lines of love, "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 found"Ah me! my heart!-for her I fear." His tender tale that earl had read, XXIX. 'Tis o'er-those locks that wav'd in gold, That streaming head he joys to bear The fatal tokens forth he drew "Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale?" The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew, And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. The trembling victim straight he led, He pointed to the ghastly head She saw-and sunk to rise no more. THOMAS PENROSE. 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 |