Near the head of the vale of Teviot, where that stream is but a small rivulet, we descended towards another valley, by another small rivulet.  Hereabouts Mr. Scott had directed us to look about for some old stumps of trees, said to be the place where Johnny Armstrong was hanged; but we could not find them out.  The valley into which we were descending, though, for aught I know, it is unnamed in song, was to us more interesting than the Teviot itself.  Not a spot of tilled ground was there to break in upon its pastoral simplicity; the same soft yellow green spread from the bed of the streamlet to the hill-tops on each side, and sheep were feeding everywhere.  It was more close and simple than the upper end of the vale of Teviot, the valley being much narrower, and the hills equally high and not broken into parts, but on each side a long range.  The grass, as we had first seen near Crawfordjohn, had been mown in the different places of the open ground, where it might chance to be best; but there was no part of the surface that looked perfectly barren, as in those tracts.

Arrived at Langholm at about five o’clock.  The town, as we approached, from a hill, looked very pretty, the houses being roofed with blue slates, and standing close to the river Esk, here a large river, that scattered its waters wide over a stony channel.  The inn neat and comfortable—exceedingly clean: I could hardly believe we were still in Scotland.

After tea walked out; crossed a bridge, and saw, at a little distance up the valley, Langholm House, a villa of the Duke of Buccleuch: it stands upon a level between the river and a steep hill, which is planted with wood.  Walked a considerable way up the river, but could not go close to it on account of the Duke’s plantations, which are locked up.  When they ended, the vale became less cultivated; the view through the vale towards the hills very pleasing, though bare and cold.

We did not look along the white line of the road to Solway Moss without some melancholy emotion, though we had the fair prospect of the Cumberland mountains full in view, with the certainty, barring accidents, of reaching our own dear home the next day.  Breakfasted at the Graham’s Arms.  The weather had been very fine from the time of our arrival at Jedburgh, and this was a very pleasant day.  The sun ‘shone fair on Carlisle walls’ when we first saw them from the top of the opposite hill.  Stopped to look at the place on the sand near the bridge where Hatfield had been executed.  Put up at the same inn as before, and were recognised by the woman who had waited on us.  Everybody spoke of Hatfield as an injured man.  After dinner went to a village six miles further, where we slept.

SONNET

COMPOSED BETWEEN DALSTON AND GRASMERE,
SEPTEMBER 25th, 1803.

Fly, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!
Say that we come, and come by this day’s light
Glad tidings!—spread them over field and height,
But, chiefly, let one Cottage hear the tale!
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic with unruly might,
And Rover whine as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good, that will not fail:
And from that Infant’s face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary’s one companion child,
That hath her six weeks’ solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wander’d over wood and wild—
Smile on its Mother now with bolder cheer!

‘And think and fear.’—Page 11.

The entire Poem as given in the works of the Poet stands thus:—

TO THE SONS OF BURNS,
after visiting the grave of their father.

‘The Poet’s grave is in a corner of the churchyard.  We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses—

“Is there a man whose judgment clear,” etc.’

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.

’Mid crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
      With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
      Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life’s hill,
And more than common strength and skill
      Must ye display;
If ye would give the better will
      Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet’s wit ye share,
      Like him can speed
The social hour—of tenfold care
      There will be need;

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
      With service meet;
There seek the genius of your Sire,
      His spirit greet;

Or where, ’mid ‘lonely heights and hows,’
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honourable brows
      Bedewed with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
      Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne’er to a seductive lay
      Let faith be given;
Nor deem that ‘light which leads astray,
      Is light from Heaven.’

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,
      And such revere;
But be admonished by his grave,
      And think, and fear!

Two other Poems on the same subject may fitly be inserted in this place, though, as appears from the Poet’s notes, one of them at least belongs to a later date.

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 1803.
seven years after his death.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that’s here,
      I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
      Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away
Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
      The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
      From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius ‘glinted’ forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
      For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
      With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
      The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
      And silent grave.

I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for He was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
      And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
      On humble truth.

True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
      Through Nature’s skill,
May even by contraries be joined
      More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou ‘poor Inhabitant below,’
At this dread moment—even so—
      Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
      Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
      But why go on?—
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
      His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father’s side,
      Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
      Some sad delight.

For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
      Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
      That such are blest.

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
      A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
      By Seraphim.

From the notes appended to the latest editions of Wordsworth’s works, it appears that the preceding poem, ‘though felt at the time, was not composed till many years afterwards.’

THOUGHTS
suggested the day following, on the banks of nith,
near the poet’s residence.

Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed—‘The Vision’ tells us how—
      With holly spray,
He faultered, drifted to and fro,
      And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
      In social grief—
Indulged as if it were a wrong
      To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
      Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream
      Breathe hopeful air.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth’s season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,
      We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
      Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trod
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that Abode,
      With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
      The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes,
Before it humbly let us pause,
And ask of Nature, from what cause,
      And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause
      That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen;
He rules ’mid winter snows, and when
      Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
      His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
      From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
      Folds up his wings?

But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
      With all that live?—
The best of what we do and are,
      Just God, forgive!

APPENDIX B.

‘The Waterfall, Cora Linn.’—Page 36.

The following poem belongs to the series entitled Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1814.  It is in a later, not better, manner than those of 1803.  Prefixed to it in the later editions of the Poet’s works are these words: ‘I had seen this celebrated waterfall twice before.  But the feelings to which it had given birth were not expressed till they recurred in presence of the object on this occasion.’

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,
in sight of wallace’s tower.

‘—How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty.’—MS.

Lord of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes—conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!

Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee—delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior’s Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!

Along thy banks, at dead of night,
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon’s pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the stream,
Yon grey tower’s living crest!

But clouds and envious darkness hide
A Form not doubtfully descried:—
Their transient mission o’er,
O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?

Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrill the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.

APPENDIX C.

‘Poured out these verses.’—Page 139.

ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE.

‘The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight of the ruin from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many years after.’—Wordsworth’s Life.

APPENDIX D.

‘Loch Leven.’—Page 165.

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.
a tale told by the fireside, after returning to the vale
of grasmere.

‘The story was told me by George Mackreth, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere.  He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence.  The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shore of the loch.’

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest
      This corner is your own.

A Highland Boy!—why call him so?
Because, my Darlings, ye must know
That, under hills which rise like towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours!
      He from his birth had lived.

He ne’er had seen one earthly sight,
The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
      Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;
For God took pity on the Boy,
And was his friend; and gave him joy
      Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above
Her other children him did love:
For, was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
      And more than mother’s love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To Kirk he on the sabbath day
      Went hand in hand with her.

A dog too, had he; not for need,
But one to play with and to feed;
Which would have led him, if bereft
Of company or friends, and left
      Without a better guide.

Yet he had many a restless dream;
Both when he heard the eagles scream,
And when he heard the torrents roar,
And heard the water beat the shore
      Near which their cottage stood.

Beside a lake their cottage stood,
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;
But one of mighty size, and strange;
That, rough or smooth, is full of change,
      And stirring in its bed.

For to this lake, by night and day,
The great Sea-water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills
And drinks up all the pretty rills
      And rivers large and strong:

Then hurries back the road it came—
Returns, on errand still the same;
This did it when the earth was new;
And this for evermore will do,
      As long as earth shall last.

And, with the coming of the tide,
Come boats and ships that safely ride
Between the woods and lofty rocks;
And to the shepherds with their flocks
      Bring tales of distant lands.

And of those tales, whate’er they were,
The blind Boy always had his share;
Whether of mighty towns, or vales
With warmer suns and softer gales,
      Or wonders of the Deep.

But what do his desires avail?
For He must never handle sail;
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float
In sailor’s ship, or fisher’s boat,
      Upon the rocking waves.

His Mother often thought, and said,
What sin would be upon her head
If she should suffer this: ‘My Son,
Whate’er you do, leave this undone;
      The danger is so great.’

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven’s side
Still sounding with the sounding tide,
And heard the billows leap and dance,
Without a shadow of mischance,
      Till he was ten years old.

When one day (and now mark me well,
Ye soon shall know how this befel)
He in a vessel of his own,
On the swift flood is hurrying down,
      Down to the mighty Sea.

In such a vessel never more
May human creature leave the shore!
If this or that way he should stir,
Woe to the poor blind Mariner!
      For death will be his doom.

But say what bears him?—Ye have seen
The Indian’s bow, his arrows keen,
Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;
Gifts which, for wonder or delight,
      Are brought in ships from far.

The rarest was a Turtle-shell
Which he, poor Child, had studied well;
A shell of ample size, and light
As the pearly car of Amphitrite,
      That sportive dolphins drew.

And, as a Coracle that braves
On Vaga’s breast the fretful waves,
This shell upon the deep would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim
      Above the tossing surge.

And this the little blind Boy knew:
And he a story strange yet true
Had heard, how in a shell like this
An English Boy, O thought of bliss!
      Had stoutly launched from shore;

Launched from the margin of a bay
Among the Indian isles, where lay
His father’s ship, and had sailed far—
To join that gallant ship of war,
      In his delightful shell.

Our Highland Boy oft visited
The house that held this prize; and, led
By choice or chance, did thither come
One day when no one was at home,
      And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate, alone and blind,
That story flashed upon his mind;—
A bold thought roused him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook,
      And bore it on his head.

A while he stood upon his feet;
He felt the motion—took his seat;
Still better pleased as more and more
The tide retreated from the shore,
      And sucked, and sucked him in.

And there he is in face of Heaven.
How rapidly the Child is driven!
The fourth part of a mile, I ween,
He thus had gone, ere he was seen
      By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me,
What shrieking and what misery!
For many saw; among the rest
His Mother, she who loved him best,
      She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the child, the sightless Boy,
It is the triumph of his joy!
The bravest traveller in balloon,
Mounting as if to reach the moon,
      Was never half so blessed.

And let him, let him go his way,
Alone, and innocent, and gay!
For, if good Angels love to wait
On the forlorn unfortunate,
      This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,
Which from the crowd on shore was sent,
The cries which broke from old and young
In Gaelic, or the English tongue,
      Are stifled—all is still.

But soon they move with softer pace;
So have ye seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere’s clear unruffled breast
A youngling of the wild-duck’s nest
      With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept
To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
The hapless creature which did dwell
Erewhile within the dancing shell,
      They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made,
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near;
But in his darkness he can hear,
      And guesses their intent.

‘Lei-gha—Lei-gha’—he then cried out,
‘Lei-gha—Lei-gha’—with eager shout;
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
And what he meant was, ‘Keep away,
      And leave me to myself!’

Alas! and when he felt their hands—
You’ve often heard of magic wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,
      Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams—that inward light
With which his soul had shone so bright—
All vanished;—’twas a heart-felt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,
      As he had ever known.

And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,
Which, gathering round, did on the banks
Of that great Water give God thanks,
      And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart
The blind Boy’s little dog took part;
He leapt about, and oft did kiss
His master’s hands in sign of bliss,
      With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,
She who had fainted with her fear,
Rejoiced when waking she espies
The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
      And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again:
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;
She kissed him—how could she chastise?
      She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;
And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased and reconciled
      To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell
Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind Boy’s adventurous feat,
      And how he was preserved.

‘Mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.’—Page 210.

EFFUSION,
in the pleasure-ground on the banks of the bran, near dunkeld.

What He—who, mid the kindred throng
Of Heroes that inspired his song,
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
What! Ossian here—a painted Thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve—an unsuspected screen
For show that must not yet be seen;
And, when the moment comes, to part
And vanish by mysterious art;
Head, harp, and body, split asunder,
For ingress to a world of wonder;
A gay saloon, with waters dancing
Upon the sight wherever glancing;
One loud cascade in front, and lo!
A thousand like it, white as snow—
Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts! of their terrors
Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood.
What pains to dazzle and confound!
What strife of colour, shape, and sound
In this quaint medley, that might seem
Devised out of a sick man’s dream!
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy
As ever made a maniac dizzy,
When disenchanted from the mood
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!

   Thus, like the men of earliest days,
Our sires set forth their grateful praise:
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!
But, nursed in mountain solitude,
Might some aspiring artist dare
To seize whate’er, through misty air,
A ghost, by glimpses, may present
Of imitable lineament,
And give the phantom an array
That less should scorn the abandoned clay;
Then let him hew with patient stroke
An Ossian out of mural rock,
And leave the figurative Man—
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!—
Fixed like the Templar of the steep,
An everlasting watch to keep;
With local sanctities in trust,
More precious than a hermit’s dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry abused.

   Vain pleasures of luxurious life,
For ever with yourselves at strife;
Through town and country both deranged
By affectations interchanged,
And all the perishable gauds
That heaven-deserted man applauds;
When will your hapless patrons learn
To watch and ponder—to discern
The freshness, the everlasting youth,
Of admiration sprung from truth;
From beauty infinitely growing
Upon a mind with love o’erflowing—
To sound the depths of every Art
That seeks its wisdom through the heart?

   Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced
With baubles of theatric taste,
O’erlooks the torrent breathing showers
On motley bands of alien flowers
In stiff confusion set or sown,
Till Nature cannot find her own,
Or keep a remnant of the sod
Which Caledonian Heroes trod)
I mused; and, thirsting for redress,
Recoiled into the wilderness.

‘Three or four times the size of Bowder Stone.’—Page 225.

From the Tour in Scotland, 1814:—‘The account of the Brownie’s Cell and the Ruins was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbet, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which we were told preachings were often held in the open air.  The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery quite striking.’

suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the islands of loch lomond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual, from whom this habitation acquired the name of

THE BROWNIE’S CELL.

I.

To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,
Or depth of labyrinthine glen;
Or into trackless forest set
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met;
World-wearied Men withdrew of yore;
(Penance their trust, and prayer their store;)
And in the wilderness were bound
To such apartments as they found;
Or with a new ambition raised;
That God might suitably be praised.

II.

High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey;
Or where broad waters round him lay:
But this wild Ruin is no ghost
Of his devices—buried, lost!
Within this little lonely isle
There stood a consecrated Pile;
Where tapers burned, and mass was sung,
For them whose timid Spirits clung
To mortal succour, though the tomb
Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!

Upon those servants of another world,
When madding Power her bolts had hurled,
Their habitation shook;—it fell,
And perished, save one narrow cell;
Whither at length, a Wretch retired
Who neither grovelled nor aspired:
He, struggling in the net of pride,
The future scorned, the past defied;
Still tempering, from the unguilty forge
Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!

IV.

Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race,
Who stood and flourished face to face
With their perennial hills;—but Crime,
Hastening the stern decrees of Time,
Brought low a Power, which from its home
Burst, when repose grew wearisome;
And, taking impulse from the sword,
And, mocking its own plighted word,
Had found, in ravage widely dealt,
Its warfare’s bourn, its travel’s belt!

V.

All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle!
No right had he but what he made
To this small spot, his leafy shade;
But the ground lay within that ring
To which he only dared to cling;
Renouncing here, as worse than dead,
The craven few who bowed the head
Beneath the change; who heard a claim
How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.

VI.

VII.

Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,
And stars that in their courses fought;
Towers rent, winds combating with woods,
Lands deluged by unbridled floods;
And beast and bird that from the spell
Of sleep took import terrible;—
These types mysterious (if the show
Of battle and the routed foe
Had failed) would furnish an array
Of matter for the dawning day!

VIII.

How disappeared He?—ask the newt and toad,
Inheritors of his abode;
The otter crouching undisturbed,
In her dark cleft;—but be thou curbed,
O froward Fancy! ’mid a scene
Of aspect winning and serene;
For those offensive creatures shun
The inquisition of the sun!
And in this region flowers delight,
And all is lovely to the sight.

IX.

X.

Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot
In Nysa’s isle, the embellished grot;
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,
(High Servant of paternal Love)
Young Bacchus was conveyed—to lie
Safe from his step-dame Rhea’s eye;
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,
Close-crowding round the infant god;
All colours,—and the liveliest streak
A foil to his celestial cheek!

APPENDIX G.

‘The bonny Holms of Yarrow.’—Page 254.

In the Tour in Scotland, 1814, the Poet writes:—‘I seldom read or think of this Poem without regretting that my dear sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when travelling together in Scotland we declined going in search of this celebrated stream.’

YARROW VISITED,
September 1814.

And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream
   Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
   An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel’s harp were near,
   To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
   That fills my heart with sadness!

A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale,
   Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused
   A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
   All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
   A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower
   Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
   On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
   Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice—
   And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings
   The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
   The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
   That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
   Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou, that didst appear so fair
   To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
   Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
   A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
   And pastoral melancholy.

Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom,
   For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
   And age to wear away in!
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 vapours linger round the Heights,
   They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—
   Sad thoughts, 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.

“A trouble not of clouds,” etc.

At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, tête-à-tête, when he spoke with gratitude of the happy life which, upon the whole, he had led.