Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2

ELLEN IRWIN,

Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.4

  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.  From many Knights and many Squires  The Brace 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'.

Strange fits of passion I have known, &c

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 lov'd, 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 fix'd my eye,  All over the wide lea;  My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh  Those paths so dear to me.  And now we reach'd the orchard plot,  And, as we climb'd 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 mov'd on; hoof after hoof  He rais'd and never stopp'd:  When down behind the cottage roof  At once the planet 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!"

SONG

  She dwelt among th' 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 liv'd unknown, and few could know    When Lucy ceas'd to be;  But she is in her Grave, and Oh!    The difference to me.

A slumber did my spirit seal, &c

A slumber did my spirit seal,    I had no human fears:  She seem'd a thing that could not feel    The touch of earthly years.  No motion has she now, no force    She neither hears nor sees  Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course    With rocks and stones and trees!

The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE

  "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,  Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,  Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self  Between me and my choice!"  A falling Water swoln with snows  Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,  That all bespatter'd with his foam,  And dancing high, and dancing low,  Was living, as a child might know,  In an unhappy home.  "Dost thou presume my course to block?  Off, off! or, puny Thing!  I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock  To which thy fibres cling."  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;  The patient Briar suffer'd long,  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,  Hoping the danger would be pass'd:  But seeing no relief, at last  He venture'd to reply.  "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!  Why should we dwell in strife?  We who in this, our natal spot,  Once liv'd a happy life!

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1

This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins.

2

This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, Author of the Hurricane.

3

The great Gavel, so called I imagine, from its resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a River which follows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

4

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