Richmond Enquirer

FOR THE ENQUIRER.

ELLEN OWENS—A TALE.

PART FIRST.

4th Plebeian. Your name, sir, truly?

Cinna. Truly, my name is Cinna.

1st Pleb. Tear him to pieces; he's a conspirator.

Cin. I am Cinna the poet. I am Cinna the poet.

4th Pleb. Tear him for his bad verses! tear him for his bad verses!

Shakspeare.

Beneath yon lowly arbour's shade
The wavy dancers featly bound.
And many a youth and youthful maid
Trip, scarce touching, o'er the ground;
And there, mid Beaus' bevies bright
Where'er an charm the festive scene,
Is Ellen—her soft spirit
That basks in elegance's light
Or tip-toe revel, o'er the green—
Pure as the dew on Sim's plain,
Which not the purest steel will stain,
And brighter than the brightest gem
That ever decked a diadem
To wreathe the brow of palace-bride—
Is Ellen in her bloom and pride!
Born, with her mother, near the place,
But now a northern city belle,
She and her aunt are here to chase
The tears from cheeks beloved, and tell
How Heaven still loves with worth to dwell—
Her father, from the banks of Dee
A merchant, much of wealth can boast,
Which all in time will Ellen's be—
He who can please her fancy most
And knows to win as well as woo
Will win a heavy dowry too!
In yonder glittering mansion bright
Illumed with the summer light
Lived kin and kindred—uncles, aunts;
The uncle owned it—he was heir
To all that will, and deeds, and grants
Could give of beauteous Bellendare—
With but one only daughter!—She
So fondly doated on a mother dear
As soon too was doomed to see
A father by that mother tied—
His death was sudden, and 'tis said
He just could bless her, as he died
"Farewell: poor Lindley! sister Ann:"—and died.
Why o'er a mournful story dwell?
That daughter wedded—sister's too;
I know not if the tales they tell
Be false, or partly false—or true—
Many about them oft have disagreed;
But this is certain—she at once withdrew
From those she loved and adored; from her birth,
Gave to her husband all she owned, by deed,
Then, childless, withered like a leaf from earth
And Bellendare, with all its lands
Has passed into a stranger's hands,
Whom were behold: his sable's thrown aside,
The happy aspirant for another bride.
"Hush, cousin Lindley"—now fair Ellen cries,
"See you not Golding?—go away—he's gone
Then darting celestial radiance from her eyes
As if to lure the lingering widower on—
Nor lacked he! no fear—no mauvais honte
Such veteran in the Cyprian field can daunt,
He no pale bard to gaze with rapturous air
Until the lady's gone—the Lord knows where!
But onward bounding, elbowing one and all,
Hark! on her ear what dulcet accents fall:
"Oh, how can I my love disguise
Beneath such keen and killing eyes?
Those eyes, which to their duty true
Can shake me o'er and search me through,
Or warm me, as their rays incline,
To freezing pole and burning line?"
The fair one gently turns her head aside—
And then blushes doubtless to hide,
While his pleadings sound the restive revellers catch.
And "no such ones" exclaim—a match! a match!
(To be continued)

SEDLEY.