The waves along thy pebbly shore, There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land As blows the north-wind, heave their foam Made blithe with plough and harrow: And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O! I could ever sweep the oar,— When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. YARROW UNVISITED. FROM Stirling castle we had seen "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; 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? As worthy of your wonder." Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn; My true-love sighed for sorrow, And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, O'er hilly path, and open Strath, But, though so near, we will not turn "Let beeves and homebred kine partake "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; "If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly, And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed Should we be loth to stir from home, The lintwhites sing in chorus; *See the various poems, the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, on page 450 of this volume, beginning: "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, And yet be melancholy,- WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. YARROW VISITED. YARROW. AND is this-Yarrow?-This the stream O that some minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?-a silvery current flows For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Though not unwilling here to admit Where was it that the famous Flower His bed perchance was yon smooth mound Delicious is the lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, But thou, that didst appear so fair Meek loveliness is round thee spread— The grace of forest charms decayed, That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp And, rising from those lofty groves, The shattered front of Newark's towers, 91 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For manhood to enjoy his strength, Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of tender thoughts, that nestle there,- How sweet, on this autumnal day, The sober hills thus deck their brows I see, but not by sight alone, The vapors linger round the heights; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. YARROW REVISITED. The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other friends, visiting the banks If, then, some natural shadows spread The soul's deep valley was not slow of the Yarrow under his guidance-immediately before Eternal blessings on the Muse, his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. THE gallant youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a "winsome marrow," Was but an infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate— Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with thee, Great Minstrel of the Border! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed, Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts, the stream flowed on In foamy agitation; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation. No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling. Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth, Like guests that meet, and some from far, And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and changing— And her divine employment! The blameless Muse, who trains her sons Has o'er their pillow brooded; And care waylays their steps,-a sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change O, while they minister to thee, With strength, her venturous brother; For thou, upon a hundred streams, Hast shed the power of Yarrow; At parent Nature's grateful call A gracious welcome shall be thine- When first I gazed upon her- Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days The holy and the tender. |