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YARROW UNVISITED.

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 ?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it?-I blame them not
Whose Fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved, and in this way express'd
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these :
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead:
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race!
Lies buried in this lonely place.

FROM Stirling-Castle we had been
The inazy Forth unravell’d;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travellid;
| And, when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my “winsome Marroir :"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."

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,
Yon solitary Highland-Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;.
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

There's Galla-Water, Leader-Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The Lintwhites sing in chorus;
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow;
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow ?

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Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown! | And Pity sanctifies the verse
It must, or we shall rue it:

That paints, by strength of sorrow,
We have a vision of our own;

The unconquerable strength of love;
Ah! why should we undo it?

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're. there, although 'tis fair, But thou, that didst appear so fair
'Twill be another Yarrow!

To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day
If Care with freezing years should come, Her delicate creation:
And wandering seem but folly,--

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
Should we be Joth to stir from home, A softness still and holy;
And yet be melancholy ;

The grace of forest-charms decayed,
Should life be dull, and spirits low, And pastoral melancholy.
"Twill soothe us in our sorrow
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny Holms of Yarrow!

That Region left, the Vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp

Of cultivated nature;
YARROW VISITED.

And, rising from those lofty groves,

Behold a Ruin hoary !
SEPTEMBER 1814.

The shattered front of Newark's Towers,

Renowned in Border-story.
And is this-Yarrow ?_This the Stream
Of which my fancy cherish'd,
So faithfully, a waking dream?

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!
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor bave these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.

How sweet, on this autumnal day
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake

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 !
Is in the mirror slighted.

And what if I enwreathed my own!
"Twere no offence to reason ;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows
A blue sky bende o'er Yarrow-vale, To meet the wintry season.
Save where that pearly wbiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender, hazy brightness ;

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.
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding :
And haply from this crystal pool,

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,
But that I know, where'er I go,

Thy genuine image, Yarrow,
Delicious is the Lay that sings

Will dwell with me-to heighten joy, The haunts of happy Lovers,

And cheer my mind in sorrow.
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers :

SONG,

| This day distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer;
Him, and his Lady Mother dear.

AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM-CASTLE.

Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd,
to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors. Oh! it was a time forlorn

When the Fatherless was born-
High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel Give her wings that she may fly,

sate,

Or she sees her Infant die!
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Swords that are with slaughter wild

Song:

Hunt the Mother and the Child.
The words of ancient time I thus translate, Who will take them from the light?
A festal Strain that hath been silent long. 1-Yonder is a Man in sight-

Yonder is a House-but where?

No, they must not enter there.
From Town to Town, Yrom Tower to Tower, To the Caves, and to the Brooks,
The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower. To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;
Her thirty years of Winter past,

She is speechless, but her eyes
The Red Rose is revived at last ;

Pray in ghostly agonies.
She lifts her head for endless spring, Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
For everlasting blossoming!

Maid and Mother undefiled,
Both Roses flourish, Red and White. Save a Mother and her Child!
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old sorrows now are ended.-

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 Lady's words, when forc'd away,

The last she to her Babe did say:
They came with banner, spear, and shield; My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
And it was proved in Bosworth-field. I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
Not long the Avenger was withstood, For lowly Shepherd's life is best!
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood :
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right. Alas! when evil men are strong
Loud voice the Land bath utter'd forth, No life is good, no pleasure long.
We loudest in the faithful North:

The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,
Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,
Our Streams proclaim a welcoming ; And quit the Flowers that Summer brings
Our Strong-abodes and Castles see

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!
Without an Inmate or a Guest,

Thou Tree of covert and of rest
Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; For this young Bird that is distrest;
We have them at the Feast of Brough'm. Among thy branches-safe he lay,
How glad Pendragon, though the sleep And he was free to sport and play,
Of years be on her!_She shall reap When Falcons were abroad for prey.
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem A recreant Harp, that sings of fear
Beside her little humble Stream;

And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
And she that keepeth watch and ward. I said, when evil men are strong,
Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; No life is good, no pleasure long;
They both are happy at this hour,

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

more

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,
That learn'd of him submissive ways, The Good Lord Clifford was the name he
And comforted his private days.

bore.
To his side the Fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The Eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;

FRENCH REVOLUTION.
And both the undying Fish that swim
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him, As IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT Its com-
The pair were Servants of his eye

MENCEMENT.
Jo their immortality;
They moved about in open sight,

On! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
To and fro, for his delight.

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!

dead:

Lofty,

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LI NES

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

thoughts tufts,

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

fruits,

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

lines

Flying from something that he dreads, than Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral

one farms

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature Green to the very door, and wreaths of

then smoke

(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

fire

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,

power

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,

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