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September, 1814.

AND is this-Yarrow?-This the Stream

Of which my fancy cherish'd,

So faithfully, a waking dream?

An image that hath perish'd!

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;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes

All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here to admit

A pensive recollection.

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!

"Twere no offence to reason;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows

To meet the wintry season.

I see but not by sight alone,
Lov'd 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,



WHAT crowd is this? what have we here! we must not

pass it by;

A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:

Long is it as a Barber's Pole, or Mast of little Boat,

Some little Pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.

The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy


And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue

and fair;

Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with

the fee,

And envies him that's looking-what an insight must

it be!

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