YARROW UNVISITED 1803 FROM Stirling Castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And when we came to Clovenford, 'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, But we will downward with the Tweed, 'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land Made blythe with plough and harrow: '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 sigh'd for sorrow, And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! 'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, O'er hilly path, and open strath, But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. 'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 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, '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!' WORDSWORTH. YARROW VISITED September 1814 AND is this-Yarrow ?--This the Stream So faithfully, a waking dream, 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 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, 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, But thou that didst appear so fair 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; And rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in, For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of studious ease and generous cares, And every chaste affection! How sweet on this autumnal day |