'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, 'If Care with freezing years should come 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!' W. Wordsworth CCCVI YARROW VISITED September, 1814 And is this-Varrow ?-This the stream Of which my fancy cherish'd So faithfully, a waking dream, O that some minstrel's harp were near And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?—a silvery current flows And, through her depths, Saint 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, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes Though not unwilling here to admit Where was it that the famous Flower His bed perchance was yon smooth mound. And haply from this crystal pool, The Water-wraith ascended thrice, The path that leads them to the grove, 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. 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, Will dwell with me, to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. W. Wordsworth CCCVII THE INVITATION Best and brightest, come away,— Which, like thee, to those in sorrow The brightest hour of unborn Spring Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, And bade the frozen streams be free, Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, Away, away, from men and towns, Radiant Sister of the Day When the night is left behind P. B. Shelley CCCVIII THE RECOLLECTION Now the last day of many days For now the earth has changed its face, We wander'd to the Pine Forest The whispering waves were half asleep, And on the bosom of the deep It seem'd as if the hour were one We paused amid the pines that stood Tortured by storms to shapes as rude And soothed by every azure breath |