Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character; the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

Lost on the aërial heights of the Crusades !

1803.

COMPOSED AT

CASTLE.

DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc (for with such disease
Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word,
To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable Trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, Beggared and outraged!-Many hearts deplored

The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

YARROW UNVISITED.

[See the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, 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 unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
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 Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There's pleasant Tiviotdale, 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 !

"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 St. 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!"

1803.

IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKIE,
AN INVASION BEING EXPECTED, OCTOBER 1803.

SIX thousand veterans practised in war's game,
Tried men at Killicrankie were arrayed
Against an equal host that wore the plaid,
Shepherds and herdsmen.-Like a whirlwind

came

The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;

And Garry, thundering down his mountain road,

Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath

the load

Of the dead bodies.—'Twas a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
Oh, for a single hour of that Dundee,
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
Like conquest would the men of England see;
And her foes find a like inglorious grave.

1803.

TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me