YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER, 1814. 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, And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?-a silvery current flows And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Is round the rising sun diffused, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection ; 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 And Pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, 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, 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, And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, The vapours linger around the Heights, 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, In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed- Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 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, Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, 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; 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 Preserve thy heart from sinking! |