Oh  !  write  not  poor — the  wealth  that  flows
In  waves  of  gold  round  India's  throne.
All  in  her  shining  breast  that  glows,
To  Ellen's  charms,  were  earth  and  stone.
For  her  the  youth  of  Scotland  sigh'd.
The  Frenchman  gay,  the  Spaniard  grave.
And  smoother  Italy  applied.
And  many  an  Englii^  baron  brave.
In  vain  by  foreign  arts  assail'd,
No  foreign  loves  her  breast  beguile.
And  EngUuid's  honest  valour  fail'd.
Paid  with  a  cold,  but  courteous  smile.
Ah  !  woe  to  thee,  young  Nithisdale,
That  o'er  thy  cheek  those  roses  stray'd.
Thy  breath,  the  violet  of  the  vale.
Thy  voice,  the  music  of  the  shade  !


556


JOHN   LANGHORNE.
**  Ah  !  woe  to  thee,  that  Ellen's  love
Alone  to  thy  soft  tale  would  yield  !

For  Boon  those  gentle  arms  shall  prove
The  conflict  of  a  ruder  field."

'Twas  thus  a  wayward  sister  spoke,

And  cast  a  rueful  glance  behind,
As  from  her  dim  wood-glen  she  broke,

Ajid  mounted  on  the  moaning  wind.
She  spoke  and  vanished — more  unmoved
Than  Moray's  rocks,  when  storms  invest,

The  valiant  youth  by  Ellen  loved.
With  aught  that  fear  or  fate  suggest.
For  love,  mcthinks,  hath  power  to  raise

The  soul  beyond  a  vulgar  state  ;
Th'  unconquer*d  banners  he  displays

Control  our  fears  and  fix  our  fate.
III.
'Twas  when,  on  summer's  softest  eve^

Of  clouds  that  wander'd  west  away.
Twilight  with  gentle  hand  did  weave

ller  fairy  robe  of  night  and  day  ;

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

Led  by  those  waking  dreams  of  thought
That  warm  the  young  unpractised  breast.
