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.
THE gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a 'winsome Marrow,'
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border!
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed- The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling.
Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly-
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited.
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded;
And Care waylays their steps-a Sprite Not easily eluded.
For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes, And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking!
Oh! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow Age With Strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory!
For Thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth, Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite Thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days, The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localized Romance Plays false with our affections; Unsanctifies our tears-made sport For fanciful dejections;
Ah, no! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark enter'd;
And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted
By the last Minstrel,' (not the last!) Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, on Revisit ing the Banks of the Wye During a Tour July 13, 1798
FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur.-Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,— Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint,
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