The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 't is fair,
'T will 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,
'T will soothe us in our sorrow

That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny Holms of Yarrow!'

W. Wordsworth

A

CCLVIII

YARROW VISITED

September, 1814

ND is this-Yarrow?- This the Stream

Of which my fancy cherish'd,

So faithfully, a waking dream,

An image that hath perish'd?

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 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 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,

The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, Renown'd 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 studious ease and generous cares,
And every 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?
'T were no offence to reason;
The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;

- but not by sight alone

CCLIV

TO THE DAISY

TH litttle here to do or see

WITH

Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming commonplace
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace
Which love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit and play with similes,
Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising;

And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame
As is the humour of the game,
While I am gazing.

A nun demure, of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubies drest ;

A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next

The freak is over,

and instantly

The shape will vanish, and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar-
And then thou art a pretty star,
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;
May peace come never to his nest
Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
When all my reveries are past

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent Creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature !

W. Wordsworth

CCLV

ODE TO AUTUMN

EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Sesso Voof miste na or the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;