"Through whose default of duty, or design, "These victims fell, he dies."

UNNUMBER'D objects ask thy honest care,
Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer:
Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless,
Unnumber'd evils call for thy redress.

Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn,

Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn?
While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye,
A few seem straggling in the evening sky!
Not many suns have hastened down the day,
Or blushing moons immers'd in clouds their way,
Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light,
With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight;
A babe just born that signs of life exprest,
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast.
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursu'd,
He had no time to waste, yet stood and view'd;
To the next cot the trembling infant bore,
And gave a part of what he stole before;

Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear,
He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.

Far other treatment she who breathless lay,
Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increas'd by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, The ruffian officer oppos'd her stay,

And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away,
So far beyond the town's last limits drove,
That to return were hopeless, had she strove.
Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold,
And anguish, she expir'd-the rest I've told.

"Now let me swear- -For by my soul's last sigh, "That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." Too late!-his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assign'd the gaol,

Or urg'd, as Camplin would have urg'd, his tale.

OWEN OF CARRON.

I.

ON Carron's side the primrose pale,

Why does it wear a purple hue?

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood That purple grows the primrose pale; That pity pours the tender flood

From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sat in his eye,
The sun his golden tresses gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,
To him who rests in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,

Though nobly born, is Owen laid, Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone, He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his simple dirge he sung;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold,

That dirge I hear so simply sweet

Far echo'd from each evening fold.

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day,

When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

Bare 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;
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
Her 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 unpractis'd breast,
Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought,
And Carron murmur'd near, and sooth'd her
into rest.