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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,
Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, 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 Ye wild whistling blackbirds 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, Far marked 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 leares repeat, 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 around. wave.
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 my 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.
“ Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow; 't is their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downward with the Tweed,
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 ? 6 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 !
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:
Ah! why should we undo it ?
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
'T will be another Yarrow !
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,
And yet be melancholy,
"T will soothe us in our sorrow,
The bonny holms of Yarrow !"
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 !
Yet why? - a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed in all my wanderings.
Is visibly delighted ;
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
A tender, hazy brightness ;
All profitless dejection ;
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? His bed perehance 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 leafy grove that covers ;
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,
Her delicate creation.
A softness still and holy,
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
Of cultivated nature ;
Behold a ruin hoary !
Renowned in border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in ;
And age to wear away in !
A covert for protection
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wildwood fruits to gather,
A crest of blooming heather!
'T were no offence to reason ;
To meet the wintry season.
— 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.
And peasant girls with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;
Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray:
And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ;
Though long before thy hand they touch
But yet reject them not as such ; For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine !
On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath,
The loveliest breezes breatlie;
His breath seems floating there,
Still vales and meadows lie;
Gleams like a paradise.
There the bold chamois go ;
And drink from his own hand.
The sheep and wild goats go ;
He fills their hearts with food.
His Shepherd is the Lord ;
Will sure his offspring keep.
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
Some fresher beauty varying round :
Through life to dwell delighted here ;
To nature and to me so dear,
KRUMMACHER (German). Translation
of CHARLES T. BROOKS.
ON THE RHINE.
T WAS morn, and beautiful the mountain's
brow Hung with the clusters of the bending vine - THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.
Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine We sailed and heard the waters round the prow
Night was again descending, when my mule, In murmurs parting ; varying as we go,
That all day long had climbed among the clouds, Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,
Higher and higher still, as by a stair
Let down from heaven itself, transporting me, As some gray convent wall or sunlit spire Starts up along the banks, unfolding slow.
Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door Here castles, like the prisons of despair,
So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard ; Frown as we pass ! – there, on the vineyard's That door which ever on its hinges moved side,
To them that knocked, and nightly sends abroad The bursting sunshine pours its streaming
Ministering spirits. Lying on the watch, tide ;
Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me, While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb; Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
And a lay-brother of the Hospital,
Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
On Alpine heights the love of God is shed;
He paints the morning red,
And feeds them with his dew.
On the same rock beside it stood the church,
How calm it was! - the silence there
By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness ;
The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
Of the wide mountain waste
A magic circle traced,
A thrilling silent life;
Our mortal nature's strife;
The magic circle there Was one fair Form that filled rith love
The lifeless atmosphere.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough ;
Gulfed in a world below;
Which in the dark earth lay,
And purer than the day,
As in the upper air,
Than any spreading there.
And through the dark green wood
Out of a speckled cloud.
Can never well be seen
Of that fair forest green :
With an Elysian glow,
A softer day below.
To the dark water's breast
With more than truth exprest;
Like an unwelcome thought
Blots one dear image out.
The forests ever green,
Than calm in waters seen !
If dale it might be called so near to heaven,
in that small sky,
wolf, Are always open !
Now the last day of many days
We wandered to the pine forest
That skirts the ocean's foam ;
The tempest in its home.
The clouds were gone to play,
The smile of Heaven lay;
Sent from beyond the skies,
A light of Paradise !
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
As serpents interlaced,
That under heaven is blown
As tender as its own :
Like green waves on the sea,
The ocean-woods may be.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY