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Yes she is there : From idle state

Oft has the stole her hour to weep ; Think how she óby thy cradle fate,'

And how the fondly saw thee fleep'

Now tries his trembling hand to frame

Full many a tender line of love! And still he blots the parent's name,

For that, he fears, might fatal prove.

XXVII.

O'er a fair fountain's smiling fide

Reclin'd a dim tower clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide,

That languith'd for his partner's loss.

This scene he chose, this scene aflign'd

A parent's first embrace to wait, And many a soft fear fill'd his mind.

Anxious for his fond letter's fate.

The hand that bore those lines of love,

The well informing bracelet bore-
Ah! may they not unprosperous prove!
Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!

XXVIII.

She comes not ;-can she then delay?

Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tearWhatever filial love could say, "To her I said and call'd her dear.

* See the ancient Scottish Ballad, called

Gill Morrice.

• She comes-Oh! Nomencircled round

o 'Tis fome rude chief with many a spear. My hapless tale that Earl has found • Ah me! my heart! for her I fear.'

6

His tender tale that Earl had read,

Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye, His dark brow wears a cloud of red,

In rage he deems a rival nigh. 'Tis o'er—those locks that wav'd in gold,

That wav'd adown those cheeks so fair, Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,

Hang from the fever'd head in air.

That streaming head he joys to bear

In horrid guise to Lothian's Halls; Bids his grim ruffians place it there,

Erect upon the frowning walls.

The fatal tokens forth he drew

• Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale, The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew,

And foon her lovely cheek grew pale. The trembling victim, straight he led,

Ere! yet her soul's firft fear was o'er; He pointed to the ghaftly head

She sawand funk, to rise no more.

Memlekekekekekekekekekeke

THE

HERMIT of WARKWORTH.

A

Northumberland BALL A D.

In three Fits or Cantos.

By the Rev. Dr. Percy, Lord Bishop of Dromore, Editor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.

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DO
OWN in a northern vale wild flowrets grew,
And lent new

sweetness to the summer gale ; The Muse there found them all remote from view, Obscurd with weeds, and scattered o'er the dale.

O Lady, may so flight a gift prevail,
And at your gracious hands acceptance find ?
Say, may an ancient legendary tale,
Amuse, delight, or move the polith'd mind?

Surely the cares and woes of human kind,
Tho' fimply told, will gain each gentle ear :
But all for you the Mufe her lay design’d,

your

noble ancestors appear ; She seeks no other praise, if you commend Her great protectress, patroness, and friend.

And bade

MDCCLX X.

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