THE BRAES OF YARROW.
THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!
When first on them I met my lover:
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!
When now thy waves his body cover.
For ever now, oh Yarrow stream,
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
For never on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.
He promised me a milk white steed
To bear me to his father's bowers;
He promised me a little page
To 'squire me to his father's towers;
He promised me a wedding-ring—
The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow: Now he is wedded to his grave,
Alas! his wat'ry grave in Yarrow.
Sweet were his words when last we met-
My passion I as freely told him ;
Clasp'd in his arms, little thought
That I should never more behold him.
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost,
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water wraith ascend,
And give a doleful groan through Yarrow.
His mother from the window look'd,
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister, weeping, walk'd
The greenwood path to meet her brother: They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough, They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
No longer from thy window look-
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid-
Alas! thou hast no more a brother.
No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the forest thorough,
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.
The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
DEAR CHLOE, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam;
The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,
And that dear hut our home.
Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.
Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor❜d right they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise:
We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.
While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And they our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humble lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed,
But then how little do we need,
For nature's calls are few!
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
"Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,
And pleased with favours given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.
Thus hand in hand through life we'll go;
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo
With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.
While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.
SIR WILLIAM JONES. 1746-1794.
A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ.
SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold—
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Boccara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.
Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.
Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display;
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?
Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream;
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
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