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And with music fill the sky,

The waters have a music to mine ear
Now, even now, my joys run high.

It glads me much to hear.
Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ;
Search for Peace with all your skill ;

It is a quiet glen, as you may see,
Open wide the lofty door,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, Seek her on the marble floor.

That spread their giant branches, broad and free, In vain you search ; she is not here !

The silent growth of many centuries ; In vain you search the domes of Care !

And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, Grass and flowers Quiet treads,

A sabbath of the woods. On the meads and mountain-heads,

Few know its quiet shelter, none, like me, Along with Pleasure, - close allied,

Do seek it out with such a fond desire, Ever by each other's side ;

Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, And often, by the murmuring rill,

And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, Hears the thrush, while all is still

When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering, Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

Rests here his weary wing.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless AFTON WATER.

store, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, of merry elves bespangled all with dew, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,

Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

I fling the hours away. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

A gracious couch — the root of an old oak Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through Whose branches yield it moss and canopy the glen,

Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

Secure, shall never be resigned by me; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for. It hangs above the stream that idly flies, bear,

Heedless of any eyes. I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Farmarked with the courses of clear winding rills; While every sense on earnest mission sent,

Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, There daily I wander as noon rises high,

Returns, thought laden, back with bloom and My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

flower How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, | Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; A profitable toil. There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,

And still the waters trickling at my feet The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;

Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, Yet not so rudely as to send one sound As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear Through the thick copse around.

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Hangs o'er the archway opening through the Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;

trees, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,

And with awakened vision upward bent,
I watch the firmament.

How like — its sure and undisturbed retreat,

Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm When that my mood is sad, and in the noise To the pure waters trickling at my feet And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,

The bending trees that overshade my form ! I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys So far as sweetest things of earth may seem

And sit me down beside this little brook ; Like those of which we dream.


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“If Care with freezing years should come,

And wandering seem but folly, –
Should we be loath to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy, -
Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'T will soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, –

The bonny holms of Yarrow !"



AND is this — Yarrow! - This the stream

Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream!

An image that hath perished !
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 !


“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,

Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow ; 't is their own,

Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! But we will downward with the Tweed,

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. “There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow ? “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 seemed, of slight and scorn ;

My true-love sighed for sorrow, And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! “0, 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 homebred kine partake

The sweets of Burn Mill meadow ; The swan still on St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swan and shadow !

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, St. Mary's Lake

Is visibly delighted ;
For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

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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.
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;

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Hung with the clusters of the bending vine — Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine We sailed and heard the waters round the prow In murmurs parting; varying as we go,

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire, As some gray convent wall or sunlit spire Starts up along the banks, unfolding slow. Here castles, like the prisons of despair, Frown as we pass there, on the vineyard's The bursting sunshine pours its streaming



While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.



ON Alpine heights the love of God is shed;
He paints the morning red,
The flowerets white and blue,
And feeds them with his dew.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, The loveliest breezes breathe;

So free and pure the air,

His breath seems floating there. On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye,
Still vales and meadows lie;
The soaring glacier's ice
Gleams like a paradise.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flow ; There the bold chamois go;

On giddy crags they stand,
And drink com his own hand.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow,
The sheep and wild goats go;
There, in the solitude,

He fills their hearts with food.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd;

His Shepherd is the Lord;

For he who feeds the sheep
Will sure his offspring keep.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

KRUMMACHER (German). Translation of CHARLES T. BROOKS.


NIGHT was again descending, when my mule, That all day long had climbed among the clouds, Higher and higher still, as by a stair Let down from heaven itself, transporting me, Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard; To them that knocked, and nightly sends abroad That door which ever on its hinges moved Ministering spirits. Lying on the watch, Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me, All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb; And a lay-brother of the Hospital, Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits The distant echoes gaining on his ear, Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand, While I alighted.

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If dale it might be called so near to heaven,
A little lake, where never fish leaped up,
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow;
A star, the only one in that small sky,
On its dead surface glimmering. 'T was a scene
Resembling nothing I had left behind,
As though all worldly ties were now dissolved ;-
And to incline the mind still more to thought,
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore
Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow
A lonely chapel destined for the dead,
For such as, having wandered from their way,
Had perished miserably. Side by side,
Within they lie, a mournful company
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ;
Their features full of life, yet motionless
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,
Though the barred windows, barred against the

Are always open!



Now the last day of many days
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise !
I'p, do thy wonted work ! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,
For now the earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the heaven's brow.
We wandered to the pine forest

That skirts the ocean's foam ;
The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of Heaven lay ;
It seemed as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun

A light of Paradise !
We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced,
And soothed by every azure breath

That under heaven is blown
To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own :
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep

Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep

The ocean-woods may be.

How calm it was! - the silence there

By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker

Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness ;

The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew.
There seemed from the remotest seat

Of the wide mountain waste
To the soft flower beneath our feet

A magic circle traced,
A spirit interfused around,

A thrilling silent life;
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife ;
And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there
Was one fair Form that filled with love

The lifeless atmosphere.
We paused beside the pools that lie

Under the forest bough ;
Each seemed as 't were a little sky

Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light

Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night

And purer than the day,
In which the lovely forests grew

As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue

Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn,

And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above

Can never well be seen
Were imaged by the water's love

Of that fair forest green :
And all was interfused beneath

With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,

A softer day below.
Like one beloved, the scene had lent

To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament

With more than truth exprest;
Until an envious wind crept by,

Like an unwelcome thought
Which from the mind's too faithful eye

Blots one dear image out.
- Though thou art ever fair and kind,

The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind

Than calm in waters seen !


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