In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity.
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.
BEHOLD 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.
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 seas
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
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;-
I listen'd till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore.
Long after it was heard no more.
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in partienlar, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:
Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrow!-
FROM Stirling-Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd;
And, when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow:"
"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,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downwards with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
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?
What's Yarrow but a River bare
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."
Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;
And look'd me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow !
Oh! green, said I, are Yarrow's Holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.
Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, Swan and Shadow!
We will not see them; will not go.
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know,
There's such a place as Yarrow.
Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have 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!
And Pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair 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,
Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low, "Twill soothe us in our sorrow
That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow!
YARROW VISITED. SEPTEMBER 1814.
AND is this-Yarrow ?-This the Stream Of which my fancy cherish'd,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perish'd!
O that some Minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?-a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow-vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is 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 famous 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,
Now peaceful, as the morning,
The Water-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:
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 autumnal 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!
"Twere 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,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow,
Will dwell with me-to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM-CASTLE.
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, from Tower 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;
And it was proved in Bosworth-field.
Not long the Avenger was withstood,
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood:
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.
Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth,
We loudest in the faithful North:
Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,
Our Streams proclaim a welcoming;
Our Strong-abodes and Castles see
The glory of their loyalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hour-
Though she is but a lonely Tower!
Silent, deserted of her best,
Without an Inmate or a Guest,
Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom;
We have them at the Feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon, though the sleep
Of years be on her!-She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble Stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely Tower:-
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair House by Emont's side.
This day distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer;
Him, and his Lady Mother dear.
Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the Fatherless was born-
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her Infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the Mother and the Child.
Who will take them from the light?
Yonder is a Man in sight-
Yonder is a House-but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the Caves, and to the Brooks,
To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled,
Save a Mother and her Child!
Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-Boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be He who hither came
In secret, like a smothered flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor Man's bread?
God loves the Child; and God hath will'd
That those dear words should be fulfill'd,
The Lady's words, when forc'd away,
The last she to her Babe did say:
My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly Shepherd's life is best!
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 to sport and play,
When Falcons were abroad for prey.
A recreant Harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long;
A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy youth.
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a Flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien;
Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate
Hath he, a Child of strength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,
That learn'd of him submissive ways,
And comforted his private days.
To his side the Fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The Eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying Fish that swim
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him,
The pair were Servants of his eye
In their immortality;
They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.
He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt,
On the Mountains visitant;
He hath kenn'd them taking wing:
And the Caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered; and been told
By Voices how Men liv'd of old.
Among the Heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be;
And, if Men report him right,
He can whisper words of might.
-Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom:
He hath thrown aside his Crook,
And hath buried deep his Book;
Armour rusting in his Halls
On the blood of Clifford calls;-
Quell the Scot, exclaims the Lance;
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield-
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his Ancestors restored,
Like a reappearing Star,
First shall head the Flock of War!
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the Vales, and every cottagehearth;
The Shepherd-Lord was honoured more and
And, ages after he was laid in earth, The Good Lord Clifford was the name he bore.
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COM
On! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the Auxiliars, which then
stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven!-Oh
times!
In which the meagre, stale, 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
rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress-to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth
The beauty wore of promise-that which sets
(To take an image which was felt, no doubt,
Among the bowers of paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What Temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of! The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away.
They who had fed their childhood upon
dreams,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength Their ministers, who in lordly wise had 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 more mild,
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 desire;
And stuff at 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
We find our happiness, or not at all!
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY,
ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING
A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798.
Five years have passed; five summers, with
the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-
springs
With a sweet inland-murmur.—Once again
Do I behold 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 dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-
tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe
fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them-
selves
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
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light, when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the
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 streains,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than
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
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,
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 unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, 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 weightThe still, sad music of humanity,
Of all this unintelligible world
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample
Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood
In which the affections gently lead us on,--
Until, 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
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Nor for this
Faint 1, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often-
times
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