And with the winds to mix thy kindred roar,
Startling the shepherd of the Grampian glen!
Rich are the vales that bound thy eastern shore,
And fair thy upland dales to human ken;
But scarcely are thy springs known to the sons of men.
O that some spirit at the midnight noon
Aloft would bear me, middle space, to see
Thy thousand branches gleaming to the moon,
By shadowy hill, gray rock, and fairy lea ;
Thy gleesome elves disporting merrily
In glimmering circles by the lonely dell,
Or by the sacred fount, or haunted tree,
Where bowed the saint, as hoary legends tell,
And Superstition's last, wild, thrilling visions dwell!
To Fancy's eye the ample scene is spread:
The yellow moonbeam sleeps on hills of dew,
On many an everlasting pyramid
That bathes its gray head in celestial blue.
These o'er thy cradle stand the guardians true,
The eternal bulwark of the land and thee,
And evermore thy lullaby renew
To howling winds and storms that o'er thee flee:
All hail, ye battlements of ancient liberty!
There the dark raven builds her dreary home;
The eagle o'er his eyrie raves aloud ;
The brindled fox around thee loves to roam,
And ptarmigans, the inmates of the cloud;
And when the Summer flings her dappled shroud
O'er reddening moors, and wilds of softened gray,
The youthful swain, unfashioned, unendowed,
The brocket and the lamb, may round thee play:
These thy first guests alone, thou fair majestic Tay!
But bear me, spirit of the gifted eye,
Far on thy pinions eastward to the main,
O'er gairish glens and straths of every dye,
Where oxen low, and waves the yellow grain;
Where beetling cliffs o'erhang the belted plain,
In spiral forms, fantastic, wild, and riven;
Where swell the woodland choir and maiden's strain,
As forests bend unto the breeze of even,
And in the floods beneath wave o'er a downward heaven.
ND this is 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,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness.
Yet why?—a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings ;
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
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here t' admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding;
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The water-wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,
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;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
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 sportive youth to stray in ;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss:
It promises protection
To studious ease, and generous cares,
And every chaste affection!
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild wood's fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see-but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt-and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought, which I could 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.
ROM rise of morn till set of sun,
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run:
And as I marked the woods of pine,
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass;
And as I viewed the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing alike untired and wild
Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled,
Flying by every green recess
That wooed him to its calm caress,
Yet sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave one look behind;-
Oh! I have thought, and thinking, sighed,
How like to thee, thou restless tide,
May be the lot, the life of him
Who roams along the water's brim!
Through what alternate shades of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go!
How many an humble, still retreat,
May rise to court my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest!
But urgent, as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destined falls,
I see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the lost current cease to run!
Oh, may my falls be bright as thine!
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft as now it hangs on thee!
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