I see thee glittering from afar- In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Sweet Flower! for by that name at last I call thee and to that cleave fast, Thou breath'st with me in sun and air, W. WORDSWORTH. 255. ODE TO AUTUMN. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, 256. ODE TO WINTER. Germany, December, 1800. When first the fiery-mantled Sun J. KEATS. His children four the Seasons flew :- The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; Rush'd into her sire's embrace Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep Or India's citron-co er'd isles. More remote, and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar Whirls to death the roaring whale. And trampling on her faded form; Till light's returning Lord assume The shaft that drives him to his northern fields, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-cover'd shield. O sire of storms! whose savage ear Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart : Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And gently on the orphan head Of Innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! The sailor on his airy shrouds, When wrecks and beacons strew the steep And spectres walk along the deep. Pour on yonder tented shores, O winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan? Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But Man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe. T. CAMPBELL. 257. YARROW UNVISITED. 1803. From Stirling Castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, But we will downward with the Tweed, "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land Made blythe with plough and harrow : "What's Yarrow but a river bare That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." -Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn ; My true-love sigh'd for sorrow, And look'd me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path and open strath We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow ! |