"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 seem'd of slight and scorn; My true-love sigh'd for sorrow, And look'd 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 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 "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, For when we're there, although 'tis fair, "If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly, Should we be loth to stir from home, Should life be dull, and spirits low, That earth has something yet to show, A YARROW VISITED. ND is this-Yarrow?-This the Stream So faithfully, a waking dream, An image that hath perish'd? O that some minstrel's harp were near And chase this silence from the air, Yet why? a silvery current flows 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 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 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 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 decay'd, 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 shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For manhood to enjoy his strength, Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of studious ease and generous cares, How sweet on this autumnal day And what if I enwreathed my own? The sober hills thus deck their brows I see--but not by sight alone And gladsome notes my lips can breathe The vapours linger round the heights, Will dwell with me, to heighten joy O THE CUCKOO. BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass Thy loud note smites my ear, I hear thee babbling to the vale, Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. The same whom in my school-boy days. I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. |