Benignity and home-bred sense Here scattered, like a random seed, What hand but would a garland cull Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father-anything to thee! Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence In spots like these it is we prize Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, (1803.) THE SOLITARY REAPER. Behold her, single in the field, No Nightingale did ever chaunt A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard Will no one tell me what she sings?— Or is it some more humble lay, Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang Long after it was heard no more. (1803.) YARROW UNVISITED. 1803. [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's castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, But we will downwards with the Tweed, 'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land '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. O'er hilly path, and open strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. 'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 1 See Hamilton's ballad, as above. 'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it ; We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly, Should we be loath to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, "Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow.' TO THE CUCKOO. O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; |