Page images
PDF
EPUB

GRONGAR IIILL.

49

Big with the vanity of state;
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summit soft and fair,

Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear,
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present 's still a cloudy day.
0 may

I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'T is thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will,
Search for Peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain you search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads, and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

JOHN DYER.

[blocks in formation]

Yet alas, we both agree.
Miserable thou like me!
Each, alike, in youth rehearses
Gentle strains and tender verses;
Ever wandering far from home,
Mindless of the days to come
(Such as aged Winter brings
Trembling on his icy wings),
Both alike at last we die;
Thou art starved, and so am I!

WALTER HARTE.

The Braes of Yarrow.

“Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk
ye,

busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,

And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow."

“Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride,

Where got ye that winsome marrow ?” “I got her where I daurna weel be seen,

Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

“Weep not, weep not, my, bonnie, bonnie bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow."

“Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ?

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?"

“Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep

Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow; And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen

Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

“For she has tint her lover, lover dear

Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow.

“Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

53

“What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood ?

What 's yonder floats ?—Oh, dule and sorrow! 'T is he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow.

“Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on the banks of Yarrow.

“Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow; And weep around, in waeful wise,

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow!

“Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,

The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast,

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow!

“Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,

And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st,

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk; green grows, green grows the grass ;

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan; Fair hangs the apple frae the rock;

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!

“Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed;

As green its grass; its gowan as yellow; As sweet smells on its braes the birk;

The apple from its rocks as mellow!

"Fair was thy love! fair, fair indeed thy love!

In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »