YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER, 1814. AND is this-Yarrow ?-This the Stream So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?—a silvery current flows 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 Though not unwilling here to admit Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound And haply from this crystal pool, Delicious is the Lay that sings 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; 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. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 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, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of Fancy still survives- And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, The vapours linger around the Heights, 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. YARROW REVISITED. [The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before 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; I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 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— 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: The freeborn mind enthralling, 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 Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and changing ; If, then, some natural shadows spread The soul's deep valley was not slow Eternal blessings on the Muse, 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 For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change M |