[As mentioned in my verses on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd,
my first visit to Yarrow was in his company.
We had lodged
the night before at Traquhair where Hogg had joined us, and
also Dr. Anderson the Editor of the British Poets, who was on
a visit at the Manse. 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 not much of a discriminating judgment, as
the Volumes he edited sufficiently shew. But I was much
pleased to meet with him, and to acknowledge my obligation
to his collection, which had been my brother John's companion
in more than one voyage to India, and which he gave me
before his departure from Grasmere, never to return. Through
these Volumes I became first familiar with Chaucer, and so
little money had I then to spare for books, that, in all
probability, but for this same work, I should have known
little of Drayton, Daniel, and other distinguished poets of the
Elizabethan age, and their immediate successors, till a much
later period of my life. I am glad to record this, not from
any importance of its own, but, as a tribute of gratitude to
this simple-hearted old man, whom I never again had the
pleasure of meeting. I seldom read or think of this poem
without regretting that my dear Sister was not of the party,
as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time
when, travelling together in Scotland, we declined going in
search of this celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly
confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem on the occasion.]
AND is this-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 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.
-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 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.
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
Star of my Country!-on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory!-I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
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