MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND
(See "Yarrow Unvisited.")
As mentioned in my verses on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd,
my first visit to Yarrow was in his company. We had lodged the
night before at Traquhair, where Hogg had joined us and also Dr.
Anderson, the Editor of the British Poets, who was on a visit at
the Manse. Dr. A. walked with us till we came in view of the Vale
of Yarrow, and, being advanced in life, he then turned back. The
old Man was passionately fond of poetry, though with not much of a
discriminating judgment, as the Volumes he edited sufficiently
show. But I was much pleased to meet with him, and to acknowledge
my obligation to his collection, which had been my brother John's
companion in more than one voyage to India, and which he gave me
before his departure from Grasmere, never to return. Through these
Volumes I became first familiar with Chaucer, and so little money
had I then to spare for books, that, in all probability, but for
this same work, I should have known little of Drayton, Daniel, and
other distinguished poets of the Elizabethan age, and their
immediate successors, till a much later period of my life. I am
glad to record this, not from any importance of its own, but as a
tribute of gratitude to this simple-hearted old man, whom I never
again had the pleasure of meeting. 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, not altogether, I will frankly confess,
for the reasons assigned in the poem on the occasion.
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!
Yet why?--a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled 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 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.
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!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
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 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.