The shepherdess, whose kindly care
Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath,
Must now their silent mansions share,
Whom Time leads calmly down to Death:

‘O tell me, parent if thou art,
What is this lovely picture dear?
Why wounds its mournful eye my heart,
Why flows from mine the' unbidden tear?’—

‘Ah! youth! to leave thee loth am I,
Though I be not thy parent dear;
And would'st thou wish, or ere I die,
The story of thy birth to hear:

‘But it will make thee much bewail,
And it will make thy fair eye swell’—
She said, and told the woesome tale,
As sooth as shepherdess might tell.