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The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed 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:

And, 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!

VII.

STRANGE fits of passion I have known:

And I will dare to tell,

But in the Lover's ear alone,

What once to me befel.

When she I loved 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 fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea:

My Horse trudged on-and we drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard plot ;

And, as we climbed 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 moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopp'd:

When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright Moon 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!"

VIII.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her Grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

IX.

I TRAVELL'D among unknown Men,
In Lands beyond the Sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

And She I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings shewed, thy nights concealed

The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine is too the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

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