« ÎnapoiContinuă »
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
Made blithe with plow 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?
As worthy of your wonder.”
My True-love sighed for sorrow,
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“O green,” said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple fræ 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;
There's such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
Ah! why should we undo it?
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
'Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,-
And yet be melancholy;
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
208 SONNET TO THE ISLAND OF SIRMIO1
EM of all isthmuses and isles that lie,
Greshof , lake
Or ampler ocean: with what joy do I
Approach thee, Sirmio! Oh! am I awake,
1 The translation is by Charles Stuart Calverley, and is reprinted with the permission of Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.—The poem cele. brates the home-coming of its author after a sojourn in the East.
Sweetest of sweets to me that pastime seems,
And nestle on the pillow of our dreams!
Hail, O fair Sirmio! Joy, thy lord is here!
Joy too, ye waters of the Golden Mere!
HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD
OH, to be in England
Now that April's there,
210 A CHORUS FROM ATALANTA IN CALYDON
HEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
The mother of months in meadow or plain
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a clamor of waters, and with might;
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
· And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot,
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
The Mänad and the Bassarid;
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
Algernon Charles Swinburne