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YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS,

COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831.

ΤΟ

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.,

AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL
OBLIGATIONS, THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

RYDAL MOUNT, Dec. 11, 1834.

I.

[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!

II.

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!

III.

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

eyes,

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!

IV.

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.

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VI.

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

chase

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

eyes

Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass

Untouched, unbreathed upon.

quest,

Thrice happy

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!

VII.

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!

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His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free,

His

power, his beauty, and his majesty.

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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-

taineer!

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.

XII.

THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MAN-
SION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KIL
LIN.

WELL sang the Bard who called the grave, in

strains

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.

III.

" 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

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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!

XV.

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.

XVI.

THE BROWNIE.

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;

nie."

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

to try

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.

XVII.

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.

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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

roused:

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