Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 3

And that then _is_ his grave!--Before his death You said that he saw many happy years?

PRIEST.

Aye, that he did--

LEONARD.

And all went well with him--

PRIEST.

If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

And you believe then, that his mind was easy--

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow, and unless His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a chearful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

PRIEST.

Nay, G.o.d forbid! You recollect I mention'd A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him, and we all conjectur'd That, as the day was warm, he had lain down Upon the gra.s.s, and, waiting for his comrades He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen head-long, And so no doubt he perish'd: at the time, We guess, that in his hands he must have had His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff It had been caught, and there for many years It hung--and moulder'd there.

The Priest here ended-- The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence, And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round, And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother."

The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare: The other thank'd him with a fervent voice, But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before.

All press'd on him with such a weight, that now, This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquish'd all his purposes.

He travell'd on to Egremont; and thence, That night, address'd a letter to the Priest Reminding him of what had pa.s.s'd between them.

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart, He had not dared to tell him, who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A Seaman, a grey headed Mariner.

_ELLEN IRWIN, Or the BRAES of KIRTLE_. [4]

[Footnote 4: The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.]

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the Braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian Maid Adorn'd 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 Brace had been selected, And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that n.o.ble Youth!

For it may be proclaim'd with truth, If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely, The Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face?

And what are Gordon's crosses To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes Upon the verdant mosses?

Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing, Beholds them bless'd and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, And, starting up, to Bruce's heart He launch'd a deadly jav'lin!

Fair Ellen saw it when it came, And, stepping forth 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, sail'd 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 back across the wave, Without a groan on 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 church-yard 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'.

Strange fits of pa.s.sion I have known, And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befel.

When she I lov'd, was strong and gay And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath the evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea; My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach'd the orchard plot, And, as we climb'd the hill, Towards the roof of Lucy's cot The moon descended still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

And, all the while, my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse mov'd on; hoof after hoof He rais'd and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof At once the planet dropp'd.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head-- "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"

SONG.