Classic Poem

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day,
When Scotland's honours flourish'd still,
That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,
Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store
The fairer plains of Carron spread;
In fortune rich, in offspring poor,
An only daughter crown'd his bed.

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 English baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
No foreign loves her breast beguile,
And England'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!

" Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love
Alone to thy soft tale would yield!
For soon 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,
And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanish'd — more unmov'd
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen lov'd
With aught that fear, or fate suggest.

For Love, methinks, hath power to raise
The soul beyond a vulgar state;
The' unconquer'd banners he displays
Control our fears, and fix our fate.