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In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity,
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid
upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:
Busk ye, bosk ye my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrows
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ?
FROM Stirling-Castle we had been
Then said my “winsome Marroir :"
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, Harcs couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downwards with the Tweed. Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Berold her, single in the field,
There's Galla-Water, Leader-Haughs,
Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown! | And Pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
The grace of forest-charms decayed,
That Region left, the Vale unfolds
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, - An image that hath perish'd !
For sportive youth to stray in ; o that some Minstrel's harp were near, For manhood to enjoy his strength, To utter notes of gladness,
And age to wear away in! And chase this silence from the air,
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss ; That fills my heart with sadness!
It promises protection
To studious ease, and generous cares, Yet why?-a silvery current flows
And every chaste affection!
How sweet, on this autumnal day
The wild wood's fruits to gather, Is visibly delighted;
And on my True-love's forehead plant For not a feature of those hills
A crest of blooming heather !
And what if I enwreathed my own!
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
I see-but not by sight alone, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes Lov'd Yarrow, have I won thee; All profitless dejection ;
A ray of Fancy still survives-Though not unwilling here to admit Her sunshine plays upon thee! A pensive recollection.
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure; Where was it that the famous Flower
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Of Yarrow-vale lay bleeding ?
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights, Now peaceful as the morning,
They melt,-and soon must vanish; The Water-wraith ascended thrice
One hour is theirs, nor more is mineAnd gave his doleful warning:
Sad thought, which I would banish,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow,
Will dwell with me-to heighten joy, The haunts of happy Lovers,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
| This day distinguished without peer
AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM-CASTLE.
Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd,
When the Fatherless was born-
Or she sees her Infant die!
Hunt the Mother and the Child.
Yonder is a House-but where?
No, they must not enter there.
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Maid and Mother undefiled,
Now Who is he that bounds with joy Joy! joy to both! but most to her
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-Boy? Who is the Flower of Lancaster!
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Behold her how She smiles to-day
Light as the wind along the grass. On this great throng, this bright array! Can this be He who hither came Fair greeting doth she send to all
In secret, like a smothered flame? From every corner of the Hall;
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed But, chiefly, from above the Board
For shelter, and a poor Man's bread ? Where sits in state our rightful Lord, God loves the Child; and God hath will'd A Clifford to his own restored.
That those dear words should be fulfill'd.
The last she to her Babe did say:
The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; The glory of their loyalty.
Must vanish, and his careless cheer How glad is Skipton at this hour
Be turned to heaviness and fear. Though she is but a lonely Tower!
-Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! Silent, deserted of her best,
Hear it, good Man, old in days!
Thou Tree of covert and of rest
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
A weak and cowardly untruth! Though each is but a lonely Tower: Our Clifford was a happy youth, Bint here is perfect joy and pride
And thankful through a weary time, For one fair House by Emont's side, | That brought him up to manhood's prime
Again he wanders forth at will,
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place And tends a Flock from hill to hill: The wisdom which adversity had bred. His garb is humble; ne'er was scen Such garb with such a noble mien ; Glad were the Vales, and every cottageAmong the Shepherd-grooms no Mate
hearth; Hath he, a Child of strength and state! The Shepherd-Lord was honoured more and Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, And a cheerful company,
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
On! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the Auxiliars, which then He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt
stood On the Mountains visitant;
Upon our side, we who were strong in love! He hath kenn'd them taking wing:
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, And the Caves where Faeries sing
But to be young was very heaven! - Oh He hath entered ; and been told
times! By Voices how Men liv'd of old.
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways Among the Heavens his eye can see
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once Face of thing that is to be;
The attraction of a country in Romance ! And, if Men report him right,
When Reason seemed the most to assert her He can whisper words of might.
rights, -Now another day is come,
When most intent on making of herself Fitter hope, and nobler doom :
A prime Enchantress— to assist the work, He hath thrown aside his Crook,
Which then was going forward in her name! And hath buried deep his Book ;
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth Armour rusting in his Halls
The beauty wore of promise that which sets On the blood of Clifford calls;
(To take an image which was felt, no doubt, Quell the Scot, exclaims the Lance ;
Among the bowers of paradise itself) Bear me to the heart of France,
The budding rose above the rose full blown. Is the longing of the Shield
What Temper at the prospect did not wake Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; To happiness unthought of! The inert Field of death, where'er thou be,
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away. Groan thou with our victory!
They who had fed their childhood upon Happy day, and mighty hour,
dreams, When our Shepherd, in his power,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength To his Ancestors restored,
Their ministers, - who in lordly wise had Like a reappearing Star,
stirred Like a glory from afar,
Among the grandest objects of the sense, First shall head the Flock of War! . And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it ;-they, too, who of gentle inood Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these That for a tranquil Soul the Lay wag framed, Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
more mild, Was softened into feeling, soothed,and tamed.
And in the region of their peaceful selves;
Now was it that both found, the Meek and Love had he found in huts where poor Men Did both find helpers to their heart's desire;
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish! His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills,
Were called upon to exercise their skill, The silence that is in the starry sky,
Not in Utopia, subterraneous Fields, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Or some secreted Island, heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world In him the savage Virtue of the Race, of all of us, the place where in the end Revenge, and all ferocions thoughts were We find our bappiness, or not at all!
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, of joyless day-light, when the fretful stir ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798.
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, Five years have passed; five summers, with O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the the length
woods, Of five long winters ! and again I hear How often has my spirit turned to thee! These waters, rolling from their mountain
springs With a sweet inland-murmur.–Once again And now, with gleams of half-extinguished Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
thought, Which on a wild secluded scene impreas With many recognitions dim and faint, Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The picture of the mind revives again: The day is come when I again repose While here I stand, not only with the sense Here, under this dark sycamore, and view of present pleasure, but with pleasing These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard
That in this moment there is life and food Which, at this season, with their unripe For future years. And so I dare to hope
Though changed, no doubt, from what I Are clad in one green hue, and lose them
was, when first selves
I came among these hills, when like a roe Among the woods and copses, nor disturb I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides The wild green landscape. Once again I see of the deep rivers, and the lonely streains, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature Green to the very door, and wreaths of
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ; And their glad animal movements all gone With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
by) Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless woods, To me was all in all.-I cannot paint Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock The Hermit sits alone. Though absent long, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy These forms of beauty have not been to me
wood, As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: Their colours and their forms, were then But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
to me Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, An appetite: a feeling and a love, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, That had no need of a remoter charm, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; By thought supplied, or any interest And passing even into my purer mind, Unborrowed from the eye. - That time is With tranquil restoration :--feelings too
past, Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, And all its aching joys are now no more, As may have had no trivial influence And all its dizzy raptures. Nor for this On that best portion of a good man's life, Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts His little, nameless, unremembered acts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To them I may have owed another gift, To look on nature, not as in the hour Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood, Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftenIn which the burthen of the mystery,
times In which the heavy and the weary weight The still, sad music of humanity, Of all this unintelligible world
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample Is lightened :--that serene and blessed mood
power In which the affections gently lead us on - To chasten and subdue. And I have felt Until, the breath of this corporeal frame A presence that disturbs me with the joy And even the motion of our human blood of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Almost suspended, we are laid asleep Of something far more deeply interfused, In body, and become a living soul : Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, While with an eye made quiet by the And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, A motion and a spirit, that impels We see into the life of things.- If this All thinking things, all objects of all thought,