Beauties of English Landscape

TO YONDER hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep,
Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep,
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;

To watch the aspect of the summer morn,
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
And taste, delighted, of superior joys,
Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes:

With silent admiration oft we view'd

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,
Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd,

And the round orb itself, in azure throne,

Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone:

We mark'd, delighted, how, with aspect gay,

Reviving nature hail'd returning day;

Mark'd how the flow'rets rear'd their drooping heads,
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,
The birds sing pæans to the source of light :
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more
Could trace him in his high aërial tour;
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

AND O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Think not of any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they :
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;

Another race hath been and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live;
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

WORDSWORTH.

YARROW VISITED.

SEPTEMBER, 1814.

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, 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 t' 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 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 ;

It promises protection

To studious ease, and generous cares,
And every chaste affection!

How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood's fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather!

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