64

What if no miracle from Heaven

The murderer's arm control,

Think

you for that the weight of blood Lies lighter on his soul?

Thou conqueror King, repent in time,

Or dread the coming woe!

For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat, And soon shalt feel the blow!"

King Henry forced a careless smile,
As the Hermit went his way;
But Henry soon remember'd him,
Upon his dying day,

THE THREE FISHERMEN.

THREE fishers went sailing out into the West,
Out into the West as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town:
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down,

And they look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,

And the women are watching and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come home to the town.

But men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

YARROW VISITED.

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,
That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why ?-a silvery current flows,
With uncontroll'd meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, St. 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.

YARROW VISITED.

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 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,

Renown'd in Border story.