PART SECOND.

THE moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square,
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine;
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line-
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said,

"Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow-him did I accost,

And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and the same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!

But something ails it now: the spot is curst.

"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood-
Some say that they are beeches, others elms-
These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, `·
The finest palace of a hundred realms !

"The arbour does its own condition tell:

You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ; But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half-a-day for a forgotten dream.

"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,

This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

"Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

"What thoughts must through the creature's brain have passed!

Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, Are but three bounds-and look, sir, at this lastO Master! it has been a cruel leap.

"For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; And in my simple mind we cannot tell

What cause the Hart might have to love this place, And come and make his death-bed near the well.

"Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,

Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.

"In April here beneath the flowering thorn

He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half-a-furlong from that self-same spring.

"Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone,"

"Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine; This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;

His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

"The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care

For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. "The pleasure-house is dust-behind, before,

This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

"She leaves these objects to a slow decay,

That what we are, and have been, may be known; But at the coming of the milder day,

These monuments shall all be overgrown.

"One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals;

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

AIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Adorned with wreaths of myrtle ;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses ?
Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;

Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling,

* A river in the southern part of Scotland.

Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin !
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,

And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover

The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain,
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days and many months,
And many years ensuing,

This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen :
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn Hic jacet !