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In lome complaining, Him retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
THE SOLITARY REAPKR.
Behold her, single in the field,
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands.
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the sens
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.
That has been, and may be again!
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
See the various Poems lbs scene of which is laid upon the Bsnki of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:
Bosk vi', bnsk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,
From Stirling-Castle we had seen
"Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town.
Who have been buying, selling.
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each Maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed.
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downwards with the Tweed.
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
There's Galla-Water. Leader-Haughs,
What's Yarrow but a River hare
That glides the dark hills under?
There arc a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."
Strange words they scrm'd of slight and scorn;
My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;
And look'd me in the face, to think
I thns could speak of Yarrow!
Oh! green, said I, are Yarrow's Holms,
Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake
Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown!
It imixt. or we shall rue it:
We lime a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it'(
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we're, there, although 'tis fair,
Twill be another Yarrow!
If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Shonld life be dull, and spirit* low,
Twill soothe us in our sorrow
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny Holms of Yarrow!
And is this—Y'arrow ?—This the Stream
Yet why?—a silvery current flows
YVith uncontrolled mennderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
I" visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
I« in the mirror slighted.
A bine sky bends o'er Yarrow-vale,
Sate where that pearly whiteness
)• round the rising sun diffused,
A tender, hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes /
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the fnmous Flower
Of Yarrow-vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
"ow peaceful as the morning.
The YVatcr-wraith ascended thrice—
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the verse
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination.
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest-charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That Region left, the Vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border-story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength,
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss;
It promises protection
To studious ease, and generous cares,
And every chaste affection!
How sweet, on this aiitiiinn.il day
The wild wood's fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twerc no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see—but not by sight alone,
Lov'd Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of Fancy still survives—
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights,
AT TUB FE18T OF BHOUCHAM-CiSTLK.
Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.
High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel
sate, And Emont's murmur mingled with the
Song.— The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal Strain that hath been silent long.
From Town to Town, YromTowcr to Tower,
The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.
Her thirty years of Winter past,
The Red Rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming!
Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old sorrows now are ended.—
Joy ! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the Flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how She smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the Hall;
But, chiefly, from above the Board
Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
A Clifford to his own restored.
They came with banner, spear, and shield;
This day distinguished without peer To see her Master and to cheer; Him, and his Lady Mother dear.
Oh! it was a time forlorn
Now Who is he that bounds with joy
Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,
And quit the Flowers that Summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
Hear it, good Man, old in days!
Thou Tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest;
Among thy branches safe he lay.
And he was free tn sport and play.
When Falcons were abroad for prey.
A recreant Harp, that sings of fear
Again he wanders forth at will,
Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
Love had he found in huts where poor Men
»i» daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills,
•he «ilencc that is in the starry sky,
I he sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In him the savage Virtue of the Mace, Kevenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; hut kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the Vales, and every cottagehearth;
The Shepherd-Lord was honoured more and more
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
The Good Lord Clifford was the name he bore.
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT IT8 COM-
On! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
times! In which the meagre, stBle, forbidding ways Of custom, law, and statute, took at once The attraction of a country in Romance! When Reason seemed the most to assert her
The beauty woreof promise—that which sets
stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense. And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had within some lurking right To wield it;—they, too, who of gentle mood Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers
And in the region of their peaceful selves;
Now was it that both found, the Meek and
Lofty, Did both find helpers to their heart's detoire • And stulTat hand, plastic as they could wish! Were called upon to exercise their skill Not in Utopia, subterraneous Fields, Or some secreted Island,heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us,—the place where in the end Wc find our happiness, or not at nil!
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY,
ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE II! HIM:
A TOUR. JULY 13, 175)8.
Five years have passed \ live summers,with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountainsprings With a sweet inland-murmur.—Once again Do I Iihio1<1 these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dnrk sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchardtufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe
fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little
lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral
farms Green to the very door, and wreaths of
smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees; With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his
fire The Hermit sits alone. Though absent long. These forms of beauty have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unrcmembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nRmeless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery. In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on,— 1'ntil, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the
power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.—If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft.
woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished
thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing
thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope Though changed, no doubt, from what I
was, when first I came among these hills, when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than
one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature
then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days And their glad animal movements all gone
by) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock The mountain, and the deep and gloomy
wood, Their colours and their forms, were then
to me An appetite: a feeling and a love. That had no need of a remoter charm. By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is
past, And all its aching joys are now no more. And all its dizzy raptures. Nor for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would bclicTe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing -oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity. Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample
power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air. And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought.