If Care with freezing years should come, Should life be dull, and spirits low, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow !" Of which my fancy cherish'd, So faithfully, a waking dream? > that some Minstrel's harp were near, 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, Is round the rising sun diffused, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; 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 On which the herd is feeding: The Water-wraith ascended thrice And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, And Pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, 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 all the nestling brood of thoughts How sweet on this autumnal day, And on my True-love's forehead plant And what if I enwreathed my own! The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see but not by sight alone, Lov'd Yarrow, have I won thee; 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 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! Will dwell with me to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. |