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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,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

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
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
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 downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"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?
There are a thousand such elsewhere,

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,
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 homebred 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 't is fair,
'T will be another Yarrow!

"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,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"

And yet be melancholy,-
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
T will soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show-
The bonny holms of Yarrow!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

YARROW VISITED.

YARROW.

AND is this-Yarrow?-This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!

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;
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
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.

91

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,
A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there,-
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I inwreathed my own!
'T were no offence to reason;

The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see, but not by sight alone,
Loved 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 vapors 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.

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
Our inward prospect over,

The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.

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,
The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot

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,
With freaks of graceful folly,-
Life's temperate noon, her sober eve,
Her night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,

Like guests that meet, and some from far,
By cordial love invited.

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
For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,

Has o'er their pillow brooded;

And care waylays their steps,-a sprite Not easily eluded.

For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change
Green Eildon Hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Teviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves;
May classic fancy, linking
With native fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!

O, while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May health return to mellow age,

With strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!

For thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,

Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite thee,

At parent Nature's grateful call
With gladness must requite thee.

A gracious welcome shall be thine-
Such looks of love and honor
As thy own Yarrow gave to me

When first I gazed upon her-
Beheld what I had feared to see,

Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days The holy and the tender.

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