VI.

Led by the golden star of Love,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way,
And in the deep-defending grove
Sought refuge from the fervid day —

Oh! — Who is he whose ringlets fair
Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow,
Reclin'd in rest — whose sunny hair
Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?

'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest,
(Ah me! that sprites can fate control!)

V.

Hast thou not found at early dawn
Some soft ideas melt away,
If o'er sweet vale, or flowery lawn,
The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray?

Hast thou not some fair object seen,
And, when the fleeting form was past,
Still on thy memory found its mien,
And felt the fond idea last?

Thou hast — and oft the pictur'd view,
Seen in some vision counted vain,

IV.

There is some kind and courtly sprite
That o'er the realm of Fancy reigns,
Throws sunshine on the mask of night,
And smiles at Slumber's powerless chains:

'Tis told, and I believe the tale,
At this soft hour that sprite was there,
And spread with fairer flowers the vale,
And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air.

A bower he fram'd (for he could frame

III.

'Twas when, on summer's softest eve,
Of clouds that wander'd west away,
Twilight with gentle hand did weave
Her fairy robe of night and day.

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the wave slept against the shore,
And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,
Left his last smile on Lemmermore.

Led by those waking dreams of thought
That warm the young unpractis'd breast,

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day,
When Scotland's honours flourish'd still,
That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,
Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store
The fairer plains of Carron spread;
In fortune rich, in offspring poor,
An only daughter crown'd his bed.

Oh! write not poor — the wealth that flows

While this was singing, Ovid young in love
With her perfections, never proving yet
How merciful a mistress she would prove,
Boldly embraced the power he could not let,
And like a fiery exhalation
Followed the sun he wished might never set;
Trusting herein his constellation
Ruled by love's beams, which Julia's eyes erected,
Whose beauty was the star his life directed.

And having drenched his ankles in those seas,
He needs would swim, and cared not if he drowned.
Love's feet are in his eyes; for if he please

In a loose robe of tinsel forth she came,
Nothing but it betwixt her nakedness
And envious light. The downward-burning flame
Of her rich hair did threaten new access
Of venturous Phaeton to scorch the fields;
And thus to bathing came our poet's goddess,
Her handmaids bearing all things pleasure yields
To such a service; odours most delighted,
And purest linen which her looks had whited.

Then cast she off her robe and stood upright,
As lightning breaks out of a labouring cloud;
Or as the morning heaven casts off the night;

On the mountains of Judea,
Like the chariot of the Lord,
Thou wert lifted in thy spirit
By the uncreated Word;
Gifts and graces flowed upon thee
In a sweet celestial strife,
And the growing of the Burden
Was the lightening of thy life.

And what wonders have been in thee
All the day and all the night,
While the angels fell before thee,
To adore the Light of Light.
While the glory of the Father
Hath been in thee as a home,
And the sceptre of creation
Hath been wielded in thy womb.

And the sweet strains of the Psalmist

othello:Soft you; a word or two before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they know 't;
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdu'd eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,

The blessed Angell not a word replies
But doth his makers holy will obay.
Foorthwith ev'n in a moment downe he flies,
And where he goes the clouds do fleet away,
But by the way he thinks and doth devise
Of ev'rie place where Silence find he may:
Though he an Angell were he could not tell
Where this same enemie of speech doth dwell.

At last he fully doth him selfe perswade
To find him in some houses of devocion
That first for life monasticall were made,
Where godly men, despisers of promocion,
Dwell far from all this worldly wicked trade