No nightingale did ever chant No sweeter voice was ever heard Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. THE cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon: There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing ; The rain is over and gone! GIPSIES. YET are they here-the same unbroken knot Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while Much witnessing of change and cheer- The weary sun betook himself to rest, The glorious path in which he trod. The stars have tasks-but these have none ! BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height, or more; What other dress she had I could not know; In all my walks, through field or town, Such figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a queen, To head those ancient Amazonian files: Or ruling bandit's wife, among the Grecian isles. Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Such woes I knew could never be; And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature Was beautiful to see; "a weed of glorious feature!" I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller follow'd with his hat in hand, Wreath'd round with yellow flowers, the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown, With leaves of laurel stuck about: And they both follow'd up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout: Two brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold. They bolted on me thus, and lo! Your mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answer'd, "she is dead." 'Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." "She has been dead, sir, many a day." "Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie; And in the twinkling of an eye, "Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew. (See the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in par ticular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day "What's Yarrow but a river bare, -Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; And look'd 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 "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! The treasured dreams of times long past, "If care with freezing years should come, 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 See Hamilton's ballad, as above. 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 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 t' admit Where was it that the famous flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound Now peaceful as the morning, The water-wraith ascended thrice, Delicious is the lay that sings 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 Dost rival in the light of day 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! |