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And with music fill the sky,

The waters have a music to mine ear
Now, even now, my joys run high.

It glads me much to hear.
Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ;
Search for Peace with all your skill ;

It is a quiet glen, as you may see,
Open wide the lofty door,

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.
JOHN DYER.

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
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Hangs o'er the archway opening through the
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; trees,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, –

And with awakened vision upward bent,
I watch the firmament.

How like - its sure and undisturbed retreat,
THE SHADED WATER.

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.

ROBERT BURNS.

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“ 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:
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 !"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

YARROW VISITED.

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, St. 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 ;
Mill 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 perehance was yon smooth mound

On which the herd is feeding :

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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 wildwood fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant

A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I inwreathed my own!

'T were 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.

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 ;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, –
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me :

Though long before thy hand they touch
I know that they must withered be,

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;
So free and pure the air,

His breath seems floating there,
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye,

Still vales and meadows lie;
The soaring glacier's ice

Gleams like a paradise.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flow;

There the bold chamois go ;
On giddy crays they stand,

And drink from his own hand.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow,

The sheep and wild goats go ;
There, in the solitude,

He fills their hearts with food.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd;

His Shepherd is the Lord ;
For he who feeds the sheep

Will sure his offspring keep.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round :
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound

Through life to dwell delighted here ;
Nor could on earth a spot be found

To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ?

BYRON

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,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits
The distant echoes gaining on his ear,
Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand,
While I alighted.

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

ALPINE HEIGHTS.

On Alpine heights the love of God is shed;

He paints the morning red,
The flowerets white and blue,

And feeds them with his dew.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On the same rock beside it stood the church,
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity;
The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-hour,
Duly proclaiming through the wilderness,
“All ye who hear, whatever be your work,
Stop for an instant, - move your lips in prayer!"
And just beneath it, in that dreary dale,

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.
There seemed from the remotest seat

Of the wide mountain waste
To the soft flower beneath our feet

A magic circle traced,
A spirit interfused around,

A thrilling silent life;
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife;
And still I felt the centre of

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 ;
Each seemed as 't were a little sky

Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light

Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night

And purer than the day,
In which the lovely forests grew

As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue

Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn,

And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above

Can never well be seen
Were imaged by the water's love

Of that fair forest green :
And all was interfused beneath

With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,

A softer day below.
Like one beloved, the scene had lent

To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament

With more than truth exprest;
Until an envious wind crept by,

Like an unwelcome thought
Which from the mind's too faithful eye

Blots one dear image out.
– Though thou art ever fair and kind,

The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind

Than calm in waters seen !

If dale it might be called so near to heaven,
A little lake, where never fish leaped up,
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow;
A star, the

in that small sky,
On its dead surface glimmering. 'T was a scene
Resembling nothing I had left behind,
As though all worldly ties were now dissolved ;
And to incline the mind still more to thought,
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore
Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow
A lonely chapel destined for the dead,
For such as, having wandered from their way,
Had perished miserably. Side by side,
Within they lie, a mournful company
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ;
Their features full of life, yet motionless
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,
Though the barred windows, barred against the

wolf, Are always open !

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE RECOLLECTION.

Now the last day of many days
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise !
T'p, do thy wonted work ! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,
For now the earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the heaven's brow.

We wandered to the pine forest

That skirts the ocean's foam ;
The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun

A light of Paradise !

We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced,
And soothed by every azure breath

That under heaven is blown
To harmonies and hnes beneath,

As tender as its own :
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep

Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep

The ocean-woods may be.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

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