XI. Ellen is not in princely bower, Her pillow swells not deep with down, On that fair cheek, that flowing hair, 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 was the form so ghastly pale, XII. The morn is on the mountains spread, A shepherd of that gentler mind, Aghast he stands-and simple fear 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,?? "Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove, "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; As flowers that fade in burning day, But fiercer feel the noontide ray, Returning in the flowing tear, This lovely flower, more sweet than they, XIV. On melancholy's silent urn A softer shade of sorrow falls, Beneath the low and lonely shade, 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 and morn, "The rosemary's pale bough to bring- "Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while, "And I her friendly roof will share." XV. And now two longsome years are pass'd Yet has she left one object dear, 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 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 breasts to bind ? Gavest thou the Promethean flame ? The incommunicable mind! Thy offspring are great Nature's-free, They have thy feature, wear thine eye, XVIII. The lord of Lothian's fertile vale, Without the Grecian painter's veil. O married love! thy bard shall own, Thy lamp's with heaven's own splendor bright. But if no radiant star of love, O Hymen! smile on thy fair rite, Thy chain a wretched weight shall prove, XIX. And now has Time's slow wandering wing Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed? |