And is this--Yarrow?--This the streamOf 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 flowsWith uncontrolled meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my wanderings.And, through her depths, Saint Mary's LakeIs visibly delighted;For not a feature of those hillsIs in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,Save where that pearly whitenessIs round the rising sun diffused,A tender hazy brightness;Mild dawn of promise! that excludesAll profitless dejection;Though not unwilling here to admitA pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous FlowerOf Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?His bed perchance was yon smooth moundOn 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 singsThe haunts of happy Lovers,The path that leads them to the grove,The leafy grove that covers:And Pity sanctifies the VerseThat paints, by strength of sorrow,The unconquerable strength of love;Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of dayHer 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 unfoldsRich groves of lofty stature,With Yarrow winding through the pompOf 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 protectionOf 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 plantA crest of blooming heather!And what if I enwreathed my own!'Twere no offence to reason;The sober Hills thus deck their browsTo 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 keepA 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.
