No nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from a cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;-
I listen'd till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S

WATER.

THE cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gone!

GIPSIES.

YET are they here-the same unbroken knot
Of human beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night,
That on their gipsy-faces falls,

Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.

Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while
Have been a traveller under open sky,

Much witnessing of change and cheer-
Yet as I left I find them here!

The weary sun betook himself to rest,
Then issued vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible god

The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they
Regard not her. Oh, better wrong and strife,
Better vain deeds, or evil, than such life!
The silent heavens have goings-on ;

The stars have tasks-but these have none !

BEGGARS.

SHE had a tall man's height, or more;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
A long drab-colour'd cloak she wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet:

What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town,

Such figure had I never seen:

Her face was of Egyptian brown:

Fit person was she for a queen,

To head those ancient Amazonian files:

Or ruling bandit's wife, among the Grecian isles.

Before me begging did she stand,

Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief. On English land

Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature

Was beautiful to see; "a weed of glorious feature!"

I left her, and pursued my way;

And soon before me did espy
A pair of little boys at play,

Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller follow'd with his hat in hand,

Wreath'd round with yellow flowers, the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown,

With leaves of laurel stuck about:

And they both follow'd up and down,

Each whooping with a merry shout:

Two brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and lo!
Each ready with a plaintive whine;
Said I, "Not half an hour ago

Your mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answer'd, "she is dead."

'Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, sir, many a day."

"Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie;
It was your mother, as I say-"

And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew.

(See the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in par ticular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !"-)
FROM Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd;
And, when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."
"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downwards with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:

Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

"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 seem'd of slight and scorn;
My true love sigh'd for sorrow;

And look'd 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;
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

"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,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
"Twill be another Yarrow !

"If care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,-
Should we be loth 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!"

YARROW VISITED.

SEPTEMBER, 1814.

AND is this Yarrow ?-this the stream
Of which my fancy cherish'd,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perish'd!

See Hamilton's ballad, as above.

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!

Yet why?-a silvery current flows
With uncontroll'd meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;

For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

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 t' 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 decay'd,

And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds

Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp

Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves,

Behold a ruin hoary!