• She comes-Oh! No-encircled round • 'Tis fome rude chief with many a spear. My hapless tale that Earl has found Ah me! my heart! for her I fear.' His tender tale that Earl had read, In rage 'Tis o'er-thofe locks that wav'd in gold, That ftreaming head he joys to bear The fatal tokens forth he drew Know'st thou thefe-Ellen of the vale, The pictur'd bracelet foon she knew, The trembling victim, ftraight he led, She faw-and funk, to rife no more. The Muse there found them all remote from view, Obfcur'd with weeds, and scattered o'er the dale, O Lady, may fo flight a gift prevail, Surely the cares and woes of human kind, your She feeks no other praise, if you commend MDCCLXX. |