And Names that moulder not away, Had wakened some redeeming thought More worthy of this favoured Spot; Recalled some feeling to set free The Bard from such indignity!

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The Effigies of a valiant Wight
I once beheld, a Templar Knight;
Not prostrate, not like those that rest
On tombs, with palms together prest,
But sculptured out of living stone,
And standing upright and alone,
Both hands with rival energy
Employed in setting his sword free
From its dull sheath stern sentinel
Intent to guard St. Robert's cell;
As if with memory of the affray
Far distant, when, as legends say,
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force
From its dear home the Hermit's corse,
That in their keeping it might lie,
To crown their abbey's sanctity.
So had they rushed into the grot
Of sense despised, a world forgot,
And torn him from his loved retreat,
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat
Still hint that quiet best is found,
Even by the Living, under ground;
But a bold Knight, the selfish aim
Defeating, put the monks to shame,
There where you see his Image stand
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand
Which lingering NID is proud to show
Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the men of earliest days,
Our sires set forth their grateful praise:
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!
But, nursed in mountain solitude,
Might some aspiring artist dare

To seize whate'er, through misty air,
A ghost, by glimpses, may present
Of imitable lineament,

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And give the phantom an array
That less should scorn the abandoned clay;
Then let him hew with patient stroke
An Ossian out of mural rock,
And leave the figurative Man
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran! —
Fixed, like the Templar of the steep,
An everlasting watch to keep;
With local sanctities in trust,
More precious than a hermit's dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry abused.

What though the Granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye;

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And touch from rising suns in vain
Solicit a Memnonian strain;
Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,

The wind might force the deep-grooved harp

To utter melancholy moans

Not unconnected with the tones
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;
While grove and river notes would lend,
Less deeply sad, with these to blend!

Vain pleasures of luxurious life,
For ever with yourselves at strife;
Through town and country both deranged
By affectations interchanged,
And all the perishable gauds
That heaven-deserted man applauds;
When will your hapless patrons learn
To watch and ponder - to discern
The freshness, the everlasting youth,
Of admiration sprung from truth;
From beauty infinitely growing
Upon a mind with love o'erflowing-
To sound the depths of every Art
That seeks its wisdom through the heart?
Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced
With baubles of theatric taste,
O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers
On motley banks of alien flowers
In stiff confusion set or sown,
Till Nature cannot find her own,
Or keep a remnant of the sod
Which Caledonian Heroes trod)
I mused; and, thirsting for redress,
Recoiled into the wilderness.

IV

YARROW VISITED

SEPTEMBER 1814

1814. 1815

112

As mentioned in my verses on the death ef the Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarros was in his company. We had lodged the night before at Traquhair, where Hogg had joine us and also Dr. Anderson, the Editor of th British Poets, who was on a visit at the Mans Dr. A. walked with us till we came in view of the Vale of Yarrow, and, being advanced in life, he then turned back. The old Man was passionately fond of poetry, though with n much of a discriminating judgment, Volumes he edited sufficiently show. But I was much pleased to meet with him, and to acknowledge my obligation to his collection

as the

hich had been my brother John's companion more than one voyage to India, and which gave me before his departure from Grasere, never to return. Through these Volumes became first familiar with Chaucer, and so tle money had I then to spare for books, at, in all probability, but for this same work, should have known little of Drayton, Daniel, d other distinguished poets of the Elizathan age, and their immediate successors, il a much later period of my life. I am glad • record this, not from any importance of its wn, but as a tribute of gratitude to this sime-hearted old man, whom I never again had le pleasure of meeting. I seldom read or think

this poem without regretting that my dear ister was not of the party, as she would have ad so much delight in recalling the time when, avelling together in Scotland, we declined oing in search of this celebrated stream, not Itogether, I will frankly confess, for the reaons assigned in the poem on the occasion.

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.

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80

The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought which I would banish,

"FROM THE DARK CHAMBERS OF DEJECTION FREED"

1814. 1815

Composed in Edinburgh, during my Scotch tour with Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister Miss Hutchinson, in the year 1814. Poor Gillies never rose above that course of extravagance in which he was at that time living, and which soon reduced him to poverty and all its degrading shifts, mendicity being far from the worst. I grieve whenever I think of him, for he was far from being without genius, and had a generous heart, not always to be found in men given up to profusion. He was nephew of Lord Gillies the Scotch judge, and also of the historian of Greece. He was cousin to Miss Margaret Gillies, who painted so many portraits with success in our house.

it for nothing else but in favour of our Eng1 Poets and Rhetoricians, who by their wit I know how to use them judiciously."

HERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle,

r his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised? one like a morning dream, or like a pile clouds that in cerulean ether blazed! 'e Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, They sank, delivered o'er

> fatal dissolution; and, I ween,

ɔ vestige then was left that such had ever been.

The royal Elidure, who leads the chase. Hath checked his foaming courser:it be!

Methinks that I should recognise that fa Though much disguised by long advers He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed, Confounded and amazed

"It is the king, my brother!" and b sound Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps up the ground.

Long, strict, and tender was the embr he gave,

Feebly returned by daunted Artegal;
Whose natural affection doubts enslave,
And apprehensions dark and criminal.
Loth to restrain the moving interview,
The attendant lords withdrew;
And, while they stood upon the plain apa
Thus Elidure, by words, relieved his streg
gling heart.

"By heavenly Powers conducted, we h met;

-O Brother! to my knowledge lost &

long,

But neither lost to love, nor to regret, Nor to my wishes lost; - forgive the wro (Such it may seem) if I thy crown h borne,

Thy royal mantle worn:

I was their natural guardian; and 't is j That now I should restore what hath be held in trust."