They knew how genuine glory was put on; In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend. "IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF THAT THE FLOOD." It is not to be thought of that the Flood STEPPING WESTWARD. [While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward ?"] "What, you are stepping westward?"-" Yea." If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, The dewy ground was dark and cold; I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound The voice was soft, and she who spake The very sound of courtesy: 1803.] The echo of the voice enwrought 1 Wordsworth's ear was peculiarly alive to the sounds of nature. In this instance the spirit of the place expresses itself in the music. [See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"] From Stirling castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 10 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, But we will downward with the Tweed, "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe 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 sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. 20 30 O'er hilly path and open Strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn 40 "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; |