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 vapors 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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

III. YARROW REVISITED.

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 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 Teviot
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 honor
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her—
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender

Dreams 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 localized romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears,-made sport
For fanciful dejections.

Ah, 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 entered ;
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 forever, 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!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Laodamia.

"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn,

Vows have I made, by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required: Celestial pity I again implore;

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens and her eye expands;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ;
And she expects the issue in repose.