He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel Of all that is most beauteous-imaged there And fields invested with purpureal gleams; Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue.-"Ill," said he, "The end of man's existence I discerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight While tears were thy best pastime,-day and night: And while my youthful peers, before my eyes, The wished-for wind was given :-I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,— Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang The paths which we had trod—these fountains-flowers; My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest reunion in the shades below. The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung-'tis vain. Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, By no weak pity might the Gods be moved; Yet tears to human suffering are due ; From out the tomb of him for whom she died; YARROW VISITED, SEPTEMBER 1814. AND is this-Yarrow?—This the Stream So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?—a silvery current flows Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 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 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, The leafy grove that covers : And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; But thou, that did'st 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, 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 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; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 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, |