Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields,
All that the fertile valley shields;
Wages of folly-baits of crime,

Of life's uneasy game the stake,
Playthings that keep the eyes awake
Of drowsy, dotard Time;-

O care! O guilt!-O vales and plains,
Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains,
A Genius dwells, that can subdue
At once all memory of You,-

Most potent when mists veil the sky,

Mists that distort and magnify;

While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze,

Sigh forth their ancient melodies!

List to those shriller notes!—that march

Perchance was on the blast,

When, through this Height's inverted arch,
Rome's earliest legion passed!

-They saw, adventurously impelled,

And older eyes than theirs beheld,

This block-and yon, whose churchlike frame
Gives to this savage Pass its name.
Aspiring Road! that lov'st to hide
Thy darling in a vapory bourn,
Not seldom may the hour return
When thou shalt be my guide:
And I (as all men may find cause,
When life is at a weary pause,
And they have panted up the hill
Of duty with reluctant will)

Be thankful, even though tired and faint,
For the rich bounties of constraint;
Whence oft invigorating transports flow
That choice lacked courage to bestow!

My Soul was grateful for delight
That wore a threatening brow;
A veil is lifted-can she slight
The scene that opens now?

Though habitation none appear,
The greenness tells, man must be there;
The shelter-that the perspective
Is of the clime in which we live;
Where Toil pursues his daily round;
Where Pity sheds sweet tears-and Love,
In woodbine bower or birchen grove,
Inflicts his tender wound.

-Who comes not hither ne'er shall know
How beautiful the world below;

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps
The brook adown the rocky steeps.
Farewell, thou desolate Domain!
Hope, pointing to the cultured plain,
Carols like a shepherd-boy;

And who is she? Can that be Joy!
Who, with a sunbeam for her guide,
Smoothly skims the meadows wide;

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud,
To hill and vale proclaims aloud,

"Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare,

Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion, fair!"

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

YARROW UNVISITED

FROM Stirling Castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled,

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land
Made blithe with plow and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

"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!

"O 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!"

William Wordsworth (1770-1850]

YARROW VISITED

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;

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;