YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS,
COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831.
AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS, THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
RYDAL MOUNT, Dec. 11, 1834.
[The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples.
The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explanation, for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that celebrated Stream.]
THE gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow,"
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border!
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling:
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed- The forest to embolden; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation: No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling.
Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly,- Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy; Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited.
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 waylays 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 Tiviot For mild Sorrento'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, Wherever they 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? Nor deem that localised Romance Plays false with our affections; Unsanctifies our tears-made sport For fanciful dejections: oh, 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 centred; 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!
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
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!
A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies; The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous
Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, No vestige now remains; yet thither creep Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights,
By humble choice of plain old times, are see Level with earth, among the hillocks green: Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring
With jubilate from the choirs of spring!
ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
SAY, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hillsAmong the happiest-looking homes of men Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen, On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills
His sky-born warblings-does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the Poet's pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode Of the good Priest? who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God, Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.
THE TROSACHS. THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which
Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired,
From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard,
Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw Light from the fountain of the setting sun. Such was this Prisoner once; and, when his plumes
The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, That thought away, turn, and with watchful Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon.
If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; The target mouldering like ungathered fruit; The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head- All speak of manners withering to the root, And of old honours, too, and passions high: Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range
Among the conquests of civility, Survives imagination-to the change Superior? Help to virtue does she give? If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free,
power, his beauty, and his majesty.
SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM.
ENOUGH of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, And all that Greece and Italy have sung Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among! Ours couch on naked rocks, -will cross a brook Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look This way or that, or give it even a thought More than by smoothest pathway may be brought
Into a vacant mind. Can written book Teach what they learn? Up, hardy Moun-
And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One Of Nature's privy council, as thou art, On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear To what dread powers He delegates his part On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone.
THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MAN- SION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KIL LIN.
WELL sang the Bard who called the grave, in
Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No style
Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile With truth, or with each other, decked remains Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile,
* In Gaelic, Buachaill Eite.
For the departed, built with curious pains And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand Together,'mid trim walks and artful bowers, To be looked down upon by ancient hills, That, for the living and the dead, demand And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; Concord that elevates the mind, and stills.
" REST AND BE THANKFUL!
AT THE HEAD OF GLENCROE.
DOUBLING and doubling with laborious walk, Who, that has gained at length the wished-for Height,
This brief this simple way-side Call can slight, And rests not thankful? Whether cheered by talk
With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine
At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose, Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air, And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's
SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earthbuilt Cot,
Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may,
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; And why shouldst thou?-If rightly trained and bred,
Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door; But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof,
Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy.- Stand no more aloof!
THE HIGHLAND BROACH.
The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and concurs, with the plaid and kilt, to recal to mind the communication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country.
IF to Tradition faith be due,
And echoes from old verse speak true, Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore Glad tidings to Iona's shore, No common light of nature blessed The mountain region of the west. A land where gentle manners ruled
O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, That raised, for centuries, a bar Impervious to the tide of war: Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain Where haughty Force had striven in vain; And, 'mid the works of skilful hands, By wanderers brought from foreign lands And various climes, was not unknown The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown; The Fibula, whose shape, I ween, Still in the Highland Broach is seen, The silver Broach of massy frame, Worn at the breast of some grave Dame On road or path, or at the door Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor: But delicate of yore its mould, And the material finest gold; As might beseem the fairest Fair, Whether she graced a royal chair, Or shed, within a vaulted hall, No fancied lustre on the wall Where shields of mighty heroes hung, While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. The heroic Age expired-it slept Deep in its tomb:-the bramble crept O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod Grew on the floors his sons had trod: Malvina where art thou? Their state The noblest-born must abdicate; The fairest, while with fire and sword Come Spoilers-horde impelling horde, Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest By ruder hands in homelier vest. Yet still the female bosom lent, And loved to borrow, ornament; Still was its inner world a place Reached by the dews of heavenly grace; Still pity to this last retreat
Clove fondly; to his favourite seat Love wound his way by soft approach, Beneath a massier Highland Broach. When alternations came of rage Yet fiercer, in a darker age;
And feuds, where, clan encountering clan, The weaker perished to a man;
"For maid and mother, when despair Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer, One small possession lacked not power, Provided in a calmer hour,
To meet such need as might befal- Roof, raiment, bread, or burial: For woman, even of tears bereft, The hidden silver Broach was left.
As generations come and go Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay: What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, In which the castle once took pride! Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, If saved at all, are saved by stealth. Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred, Mount along ways by man prepared; And in far-stretching vales, whose streams Seek other seas, their canvas gleams. Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts; Soon, like a lingering star forlorn Among the novelties of morn,
While young delights on old encroach, Will vanish the last Highland Broach. But when, from out their viewless bed, Like vapours, years have rolled and spread; And this poor verse, and worthier lays, Shall yield no light of love or praise: Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, Or torrent from the mountain's brow, Or whirlwind, reckless what his might Entombs, or forces into light; Blind Chance, a volunteer ally, That oft befriends Antiquity, And clears Oblivion from reproach,
May render back the Highland Broach.
Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last
survivors of the clan of Macfarlane, once
powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of "The Brow See "The Brownie's Cell," p. 182, to which the following is a sequel. "How disappeared he?" Ask the newt and toad;
Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell How he was found, cold as an icicle, Under an arch of that forlorn abode; Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood
Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared
Privation's worst extremities, and die With no one near save the omnipresent God. Verily so to live was an awful choice- A choice that wears the aspect of a doom; But in the mould of mercy all is cast For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; And this forgotten Taper to the last Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.
TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR. COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND.
THOUGH joy attend Thee orient at the birth Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth,
In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, Perplexed as if between a splendour lost
* How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, "I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach!" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.
PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LIONS' DEN, AT HAMILTON PALACE.
AMID a fertile region green with wood And fresh with rivers, well did it become The ducal Owner, in his palace-home To naturalise this tawny Lion brood; Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood (Couched in their den) with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear; The wind with terror while they roar for food. Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear! Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave Daunt him if his Companions, now be-drowsed, Outstretched and listless, were by hunger
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