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• She comez-Oh! No-encircled round
o 'Tis some rude chief with many a spear.
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.
The trembling victim, straight he led,
Ere! yet her soul's firft fear was o’er; He pointed to the glastly head
She saw-and funk, to rise no more.
HERMIT of WARKWORTH.
Northumberland BALL A D.
In three Fits or Cantos.
By the Rev. Dr. Percy, Lord Bishop of Dromore, Éditor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.
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, Obscur'd with weeds, and scattered o'er the dale,
O Lady, may so flight a gift prevail,
Surely the cares and woes of human kind,
the Muse her lay design'd, And bade your noble ancestors appear ;
She seeks no other praise, if you commend