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And while the maple dish is mine,
COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE.
Come to these scenes of peace,
SEE, O SEE
SEE, O see !
While that I
With any sweet
Hear, O hear!
And water's fall
While to me,
Come on, sir; here's the place : stand still.
How fearful And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low ! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful
trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon tall ar choring bark, Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight; the murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more ; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.
The ocean at the bidding of the moodi
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES
And semblance of return. Anon from home
I steal by lawns and grassy plots :
I slide by hazel covers ;
That grow for happy lovers.
Among my skimming swallows ? I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows
In brambly wildernesses ;
I loiter round my cresses ;
SONG OF THE BROOK.
I make a sudden sally
To bicker down a valley.
Or slip between the ridges,
And half a hundred bridges.
To join the brimming river,
But I go on forever.
In little sharps and trebles,
I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
(The Vale of the Towy embraces, in its winding course of fifteen miles, some of the loveliest scenery of South Wales. If it be less cultivated than the Vale of Usk, its woodland views are more romantic and frequent. The neighborhood is historic and poetic ground. From Grongar Hill the eye discovers traces a Roman Camp; Golden Grove, the home of Jeremy Taylor, is on the opposite side of the river ; Merlin's chair recalls Spenser; and a farm-house near the foot of Llangumnor Hill brings back the meiaory of its once genial occupant, Richard Steele. Spenser places the cave of Merlin among the dark woods of Dinevawr.]
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
SILENT nymph, with curious eye !
About his checkered sides I wind,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
Above the golden gravel,
To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
Now I gain the mountain's brow;
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
And see the rivers, how they run
Ever charming, ever new,
See on the mountain's southern side,
0, may I with myself agree,
Now, even now, my joys run high,
And with music fill the sky,
The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.
It is a quiet glen, as you may see,
Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, Seek her on the marble floor.
That spread their giant branches, broad and free, In vain you search ; she is not here !
The silent growth of many centuries ; In vain you search the domes of Care !
And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
A sabbath of the woods. On the meads and mountain-heads,
Few know its quiet shelter, none, like me, Along with Pleasure, -close allied,
Do seek it out with such a fond desire, Ever by each other's side ;
Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, And often, by the murmuring rill,
And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, Hears the thrush, while all is still
When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering, Within the groves of Grongar Hill.
Rests here his weary wing.
And all the day, with fancies ever new,
And sweet companions from their boundless AFTON WATER.
store, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,
Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
I fling the hours away. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
A gracious couch the root of an old oak Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through Whose branches yield it moss and canopy the glen,
Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke Yę wild whistling black birds in yon thorny den, Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for. It hangs above the stream that idly flies, bear,
Heedless of any eyes. I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Farmarked with the courses of clear winding rills ; While every sense on earnest mission sent,
Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, There daily I wander as noon rises high,
Returns, thought laden, back with bloom and My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
flower How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; A profitable toil. There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
And still the waters trickling at my feet The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repcat, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;
Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, Yet not so rudely as to send one sound As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear Through the thick copse
Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest
And with awakened vision upward bent,
How like - its sure and undisturbed retreat,
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm When that my mood is sad, and in the noise To the pure waters trickling at my feet And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,
The bending trees that overshade
form! I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys So far as sweetest things of earth may seem
And sit me down beside this little brook ; Like those of which we dream.
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 't is fair,
'T will be another Yarrow !
“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,
'T will soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow !"
The mazy Forth unravelled ;
And with the Tweed had travelled ;
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,
Each maiden to her dwelling!
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow !
Nor turn aside to Yarrow. “There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There's pleasant Teviot-dale, 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 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 ! “0, 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 homebred kine partake
The sweets of Burn Mill meadow ; The swan still on St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
And is this - Yarrow ? — This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
An image that hath perished !
To utter notes of gladness,
That fills my heart with sadness !
With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed in all my wanderings.
Is visibly delighted ;
Is in the mirror slighted.
Save where that pearly whiteness
A tender, hazy brightness ;
All profitless dejection ;
A pensive recollection.
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
On which the herd is feeding;