We will not see them; will not go Enough if in our hearts we know "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, "If care with freezing years should come Should life be dull, and spirits low, I will soothe us in our sorrow That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow! W. WORDSWORTH. 258. YARROW VISITED. September, 1814. And is this-Yarrow ?-This the Stream Of which my fancy cherish'd So faithfully, a waking dream, An image that hath perish'd? O that some minstrel's harp were near To utter notes of gladness And chase this silence from the air, U Yet why?—a silvery current flows 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 A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound Delicious is the Lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; But thou that didst appear so fair 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 decay'd, 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 shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For manhood to enjoy his strength, Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of studious ease and generous cares, How sweet on this autumnal day 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. A ray of Fancy still survives- And gladsome notes my lips can breathe The vapours linger round the heights, Will dwell with me, to heighten joy And cheer my mind in sorrow. W. WORDSWORTH. 259. THE INVITATION. Best and Brightest, come away, Which, like thee, to those in sorrow The brightest hour of unborn Spring Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, Away, away, from men and towns, Where the soul need not repress Its music, lest it should not find Radiant Sister of the Day Where the melting hoar-frost wets And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meets In the universal Sun. P. B. SHELLEY. |