"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 Saint 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!"

YARROW VISITED.

SEPTEMBER, 1814.

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!

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, 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,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;

Mill dawn of promise that excludes

All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here t' admit

A pensive reellection.

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:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,

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

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 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 ;

It promises protection

To studious ease, and generous cares,

And every chaste affection!

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood's fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant

A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!

'T were 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.