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 pass'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.*

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.

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

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 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.