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And if, as Yarrow, through the woods

And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face,

Though we were changed and changing ; If, then, some natural shadows spread

Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow

Its brightness to recover.

Eternal blessings on the Muse,

And her divine employment ! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons

For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness lingering yet

Has o'er their pillow brooded ;
And Care waylay their steps — a Sprite

Not easily eluded.
For thee, O Scott! compelled to change

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot
For mild Sorento's breezy waves;

May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking !

O! while they minister to thee,

Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age,

With Strength, her venturous brother ; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in

song
and

story, With unimagined beauty shine,

Nor lose one ray of glory!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams,

By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,

Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,

Where'er thy path invite thee, At parent Nature's grateful call,

With gladness must requite Thee.

A gracious welcome shall be thine,

Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me

When first I gazed upon her ;
Beheld what I had feared to see,

Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,

The holy and the tender.

And what, for this frail world, were all

That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,

Memorial tribute offer ?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?

Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice

That hourly speaks within us ?

made sport

Nor deem that localised Romance

Plays false with our affections ;
Unsanctifies our tears

For fanciful dejections :
Ah, no! the visions of the past

Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is - our changeful Life,

With friends and kindred dealing.

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day

In Yarrow's groves were center'd;
Who through the silent portal arch

Of mouldering Newark enter'd,
And clomb the winding stair that once

Too timidly was mounted
By the “ last Minstrel,” (not the last)

Ere he his Tale recounted !

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!

Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant

For simple hearts thy beauty,
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,

Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,

To memory's shadowy moonshine!

I.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM

ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES.

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred King or laurelled Conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope !

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