MINE ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd, When each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed While clouds of incense mounting veiled the rood,
That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly viewed Through Alpine vapours. Such appalling rite Our Church prepares not, trusting to the might
Of simple truth with grace divine imbued; Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, Like men ashamed: the Sun with his first smile
Shall greet that symbol crowning the low Pile: And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn Shall wooingly embrace it; and green moss Creep round its arms through centuries un- born.
WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers,
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!- But, from the arms of silence-list! O list! The music bursteth into second life; The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife: Heart-trilling strains, that cast, before the eye Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!
THEY dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam; Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the
Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread As now, when She hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part O grateful England's overflowing Dead.
WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored. Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold His drowsy rings. Look forth!-that Stream behold,
THAT STREAM upon whose bosom we have passed
Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and Death has gathered to his fol Long lines of mighty Kings-look forth, my Soul!
(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust' The living Waters, less and less by guilt Stained and polluted, brighten as they ro!! Till they have reached the eternal City -built For the perfected Spirits of the just!
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS,
COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831.
AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS, THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
RYDAL MOUNT, Dec. 11, 1834.
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
eams 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!
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
Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts. ve Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him
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!
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 nes, 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 seen Level with earth, among the hillocks green: Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets
With jubilate from the choirs of spring!
ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
SAY, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills-Among 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.
THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy
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!
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.
THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN.
WELL Sang the Bard who called the grave, in
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.
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