YARROW VISITED.

AND is this-Yarrow?-This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,

So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!

Oh, 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, St. 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 to 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,
A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild wood 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
According to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt-and soon must vanish ;
One hour is theirs, no more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would 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.

YARROW REVISITED.

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 day,
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

* These stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other friends, on the banks of the Yarrow, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples.

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 waylay 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 Teviot
For mild Sorento'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;