The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
-Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West,
Outshining like a visible God

The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
And one night's diminution of her power,

Behold the mighty Moon! this way

She looks as if at them-but they Regard not her:-oh better wrong and strife, Better vain deeds or evil than such life!

The silent Heavens have goings-on ;

The stars have tasks-but these have none !

XXII.

BEGGARS.

SHE had a tall Man's height, or more;

No bonnet screened her from the heat;

A long drab-coloured Cloak she wore,
A Mantle reaching to her feet:

What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town,
Such Figure had I never seen:

Her face was of Egyptian brown:

Fit person was she for a Queen,

To head those ancient Amazonian files:

Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.

Before me begging did she stand,

Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief:-on English Land

Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature Was beautiful to see; "a Weed of glorious feature!"

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy

A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The Taller followed with his hat in hand,
Wreathed round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land.

The Other wore a rimless crown,
With leaves of laurel stuck about:
And they both followed up and down,

Each whooping with a merry shout;

Two Brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old;

And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and lo!
Each ready with a plaintive whine;

Your Mother has had alms of mine.”

"That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead." "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie;
"It was your Mother, as I say-"

And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado,

Off to some other play they both together flew.

XXIII.

YARROW UNVISITED.

1803.

(See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning

"Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,

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

FROM Stirling Castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravell'd;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell❜d;
And, when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
"And see the Braes of Yarrow."