III. ELLEN IRWIN : OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE*. FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid Beneath the budding beeches. The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on the banks of which the events here related took place. From many knights and many squires And Gordon, fairest of them all, Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaimed with truth, But what are Gordon's form and face, Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, 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. I 2 And, falling into Bruce's arms, And Bruce, as soon as he had slain But many days, and many months. This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing. So, coming his last help to crave, And there his sorrow ended. Now ye, who willingly have heard By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; May no rude hand deface it, IV. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower And these grey rocks; that household lawn; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road Like something fashioned in a dream; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— Thus beating up against the wind. |