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,

A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there—

The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,

And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!

And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see-but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow !
Will dwell with me-to heighten joy,

And cheer my mind in sorrow.

L

YARROW REVISITED:

WITH SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1831

THE gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a 'winsome Marrow,'
Was but an Infant in the lap

When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,

I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,

Their dignity installing

In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;

But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed—
The forest to embolden;

Reddened the fiery hues, and shot

Transparence through the golden.

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on

In foamy agitation;

And slept in many a crystal pool

For quiet contemplation:

F

No public and no private care

The freeborn mind enthralling,

We made a day of happy hours,

Our happy days recalling.

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,
With freaks of graceful folly,-
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,

Her Night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared

In harmony united,

Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited.

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,

Did meet us with unaltered face,

Though we were changed and changing; If, then, some natural shadows spread

Our inward prospect over,

The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.

Eternal blessings on the Muse,

And her divine employment !

The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment;

Albeit sickness, lingering yet,

Has o'er their pillow brooded;

And Care waylays their steps-a Sprite Not easily eluded.

For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change.
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot

For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!

O while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age

With Strength, her venturous brother;

And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,
Hast shed the power of Yarrow;