Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 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, 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 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, But thou, that didst To fond imagination, 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 decayed, 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; Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts that nestle there, How sweet, on this autumnal day, 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, One hour is theirs, nor more is mine Will dwell with me to heighten joy, |