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

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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 fo fair, Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,

Hang from the sever'd head in air.

That streaming. head he joys to bear

In borrid 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 pi&ur'd bracelet soon she knew,

And foon her lovely cheek grew pale.

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The trembling victim, straight he led,

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

She saw-and funk, to rise no more.


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

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OWN in a northern vale wild flowrets grow,

And lent new sweetness to the summer gale ; The Muse there found them all remote from view, Obfcur'd with weeds, and scattered o'er the dale,

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

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


noble ancestors appear ;

She seeks no other praise, if you commend
Her great protectress, patroness, and friend,


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