Composed 1803.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Published 1807.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;—
I listened, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON

LOCH AWE.

From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our 'view,—a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had 'made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The 'Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, ' appearing to rise out of the water,-mists rested upon the mountain 'side, with spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low 'grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately-not dismantled of turrets-nor the walls broken 'down, though obviously a ruin.'-Extract from the Journal of my Companion.

Composed 1803

Published 1827.

CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off-abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm ;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims

To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,

All that he holds in common with the stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light

Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

The chronicle were welcome that should call

Into the compass of distinct regard

The toils and struggles of thy infant years!
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear

Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character-the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

Lost on the aërial heights of the Crusades!

YARROW UNVISITED.

See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"

Composed 1803.

Published 1807.

FROM Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis 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 Tiviot-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 !

"Oh! 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 St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it :
We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
"Twill be another Yarrow !

If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,-
Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

"Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny holms of Yarrow!"

ANTICIPATION.

Composed 1803.

OCTOBER 1803.

Published 1807.

SHOUT, for a mighty Victory is won!

On British ground the Invaders are laid low ;
The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,

And left them lying in the silent sun,

Never to rise again !-the work is done.

Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show

And greet your sons! drums beat and trumpets blow!
Make merry, wives! ye little children, stun

Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise!
Clap, infants, clap your hands! Divine must be