And
is
this—Yarrow?—This
the
stream
Of
which
my
fancy
cherished,
So
faithfully,
a
waking
dream?
An
image
that
hath
perished!
O
that
some
Minstrel's
harp
were
near,
To
utter
notes
of
gladness,
And
chase
this
silence
from
the
air,
That
fills
my
heart
with
sadness!
Yet
why?—a
silvery
current
flows
With
uncontrolled
meanderings;
Nor
have
these
eyes
by
greener
hills
Been
soothed,
in
all
my
wanderings.
And,
through
her
depths,
Saint
Mary's
Lake
Is
visibly
delighted;
For
not
a
feature
of
those
hills
Is
in
the
mirror
slighted.
A
blue
sky
bends
o'er
Yarrow
vale,
Save
where
that
pearly
whiteness
Is
round
the
rising
sun
diffused,
A
tender
hazy
brightness;
Mild
dawn
of
promise!
that
excludes
All
profitless
dejection;
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,
The
Water-wraith
ascended
thrice—
And
gave
his
doleful
warning.
Delicious
is
the
Lay
that
sings
The
haunts
of
happy
Lovers,
The
path
that
leads
them
to
the
grove,
The
leafy
grove
that
covers:
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
To
fond
imagination,
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
tender
thoughts,
that
nestle
there—
The
brood
of
chaste
affection.
How
sweet,
on
this
autumnal
day,
The
wild-wood
fruits
to
gather,
And
on
my
True-love's
forehead
plant
A
crest
of
blooming
heather!
And
what
if
I
enwreathed
my
own!
'Twere
no
offence
to
reason;
The
sober
Hills
thus
deck
their
brows
To
meet
the
wintry
season.
I
see—but
not
by
sight
alone,
Loved
Yarrow,
have
I
won
thee;
A
ray
of
fancy
still
survives—
Her
sunshine
plays
upon
thee!
Thy
ever-youthful
waters
keep
A
course
of
lively
pleasure;
And
gladsome
notes
my
lips
can
breathe,
Accordant
to
the
measure.
The
vapours
linger
round
the
Heights,
They
melt,
and
soon
must
vanish;
One
hour
is
theirs,
nor
more
is
mine—
Sad
thought,
which
I
would
banish,
But
that
I
know,
where'er
I
go,
Thy
genuine
image,
Yarrow!
Will
dwell
with
me—to
heighten
joy,
And
cheer
my
mind
in
sorrow.
