The paths which we had trod-these fountains-flowers; My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, Behold, they tremble !-haughty their array, Yet of their number no one dares to die !'- Old frailties then recurred :-but lofty thought, And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest reunion in the shades below. The invisible world with thee hath sympathized; Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung-'tis vain. Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, By no weak pity might the Gods be moved; Yet tears to human suffering are due ; From out the tomb of him for whom she died; YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER 1814. AND is this-Yarrow?-This the Stream So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?—a silvery current flows Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 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 And haply from this crystal pool, The Water-wraith ascended thrice- Delicious is the Lay that sings 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 did'st 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 manhood to enjoy his strength; Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of tender thoughts, that nestle there- How sweet, on this autumnal day, And what if I enwreathed my own! The sober Hills thus deck their brows I see-but not by sight alone, And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 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, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me-to heighten joy, Composed 1815. 1815. TO B. R. HAYDON. (45) Published 1816. HIGH is our calling, Friend!-Creative Art Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness- Composed 1815. NOVEMBER 1. Published 1816. How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, (46) Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, Shines like another sun-on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering headTerrestrial, but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aërial Powers Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. |