The Blue Poetry Book

YARROW UNVISITED

1803

 
From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell’d;
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 downward 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 Teviot-dale, a land
Made blythe 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 sigh’d 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 Saint 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!’
 

W. 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 uncontroll’d 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 to 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,
A covert for protection
Of studious ease and generous cares,
And every chaste affection!
 
 
How sweet on this autumnal day
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true-love’s forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own?
’Twere 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.
 
 
The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine —
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where’er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me – to heighten joy
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
 

W. Wordsworth.

SIR HUGH; OR, THE JEW’S DAUGHTER

 
Yesterday was brave Hallowday,
And, above all days of the year,
The schoolboys all got leave to play,
And little Sir Hugh was there.
 
 
He kicked the ball with his foot,
And kepped it with his knee,
And even in at the Jew’s window,
He gart the bonnie ba’ flee.
 
 
Out then came the Jew’s daughter
‘Will ye come in and dine?’
‘I winna come in and I canna come in,
Till I get that ball of mine.
 
 
‘Throw down that ball to me, maiden,
Throw down the ball to me.’
‘I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh,
Till ye come up to me.’
 
 
She pu’d the apple frae the tree,
It was baith red and green,
She gave it unto little Sir Hugh,
With that his heart did win.
 
 
She wiled him into ae chamber,
She wiled him into twa,
She wiled him into the third chamber,
And that was warst o’t a’.
 
 
She took out a little penknife,
Hung low down by her gair,
She twined this young thing o’ his life,
And a word he ne’er spak mair.
 
 
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin,
And syne came out the bonnie heart’s blood
There was nae mair within.
 
 
She laid him on a dressing-table,
She dress’d him like a swine,
Says, ‘Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh,
Wi’ ye’re apples red and green.’
 
 
She put him in a case of lead,
Says, ‘Lie ye there and sleep;’
She threw him into the deep draw-well
Was fifty fathom deep.
 
 
A schoolboy walking in the garden,
Did grievously hear him moan,
He ran away to the deep draw-well
And on his knee fell down.
 
 
Says ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray you speak to me;
If you speak to any body in this world,
I pray you speak to me.’
 
 
When bells were rung and mass was sung,
And every body went hame,
Then every lady had her son,
But Lady Helen had nane.
 
 
She rolled her mantle her about,
And sore, sore did she weep;
She ran away to the Jew’s castle
When all were fast asleep.
 
 
She cries, ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray you speak to me;
If you speak to any body in this world,
I pray you speak to me.’
 
 
‘Lady Helen, if ye want your son,
I’ll tell ye where to seek;
Lady Helen, if ye want your son,
He’s in the well sae deep.’
 
 
She ran away to the deep draw-well,
And she fell down on her knee;
Saying, ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray ye speak to me,
If ye speak to any body in the world,
I pray ye speak to me.’
 
 
‘Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother
The well it is wondrous deep,
The little penknife sticks in my throat,
And I downa to ye speak.
 
 
‘But lift me out o’ this deep draw-well,
And bury me in yon churchyard;
Put a Bible at my head,’ he says,
‘And a testament at my feet,
And pen and ink at every side,
And I’ll lie still and sleep.
 
 
‘And go to the back of Maitland town,
Bring me my winding-sheet;
For it’s at the back of Maitland town
That you and I sall meet.’
 
 
O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom
The broom that makes full sore;
A woman’s mercy is very little,
But a man’s mercy is more.
 

Anonymous.

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE

 
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
When thou from hence away art paste,
Every nighte and alle,
To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every nighte and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle,
To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 

…

 
From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
Every nighte and alle,
The fire sall never make thee shrinke,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule.
 
 
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
 

THE RED FISHERMAN; OR, THE DEVIL’S DECOY

 
‘Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified.’ —Romeo and Juliet.
 
 
The Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon:
A starlight sky was o’er his head,
A quiet breeze around;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
 
 
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds;
He clasped his gilded rosary,
But he did not tell the beads;
If he looked to the heaven, ’twas not to invoke
The Spirit that dwelleth there;
If he opened his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.
A pious priest might the Abbot seem,
He had swayed the crozier well;
But what was the theme of the Abbot’s dream,
The Abbot were loath to tell.
 
 
Companionless, for a mile or more
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o’erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;
And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year
Unchanged and motionless;
From the river-stream it spread away
The space of half a rood;
The surface had the hue of clay
And the scent of human blood;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew
Were venomous and foul,
And the birds that through the bushes flew
Were the vulture and the owl;
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a company pumped,
And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,
Grew rotten while it jumped;
And bold was he who thither came
At midnight, man or boy,
For the place was cursed with an evil name,
And that name was ‘The Devil’s Decoy!’
 
 
The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:
When suddenly rose a dismal tone, —
Was it a song, or was it a moan? —
‘O ho! O ho!
Above, – below, —
Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o’er him?
’Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:
The startled Priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!
 
 
All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o’er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago.
And the hands that worked his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:
You would have sworn, as you looked on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!
 
 
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly, —
It seemed not such to the Abbot’s eye;
Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about
By a chain within and a chain without;
The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!
 
 
From the bowels of the earth
Strange and varied sounds had birth:
Now the battle’s bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
Now an old man’s hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling’s agony! —
Cold by this was the midnight air
 
 
But the Abbot’s blood ran colder,
When he saw a gasping Knight lie there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;
For he who writhed in mortal pain
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain —
The cruel Duke of Gloster!
 
 
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent Abbot knew full well
The swelling form, and the steaming smell:
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guessed the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.
 
 
Sounded then the noisy glee
Of a revelling company, —
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife and thrust of fork:
But, where’er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said! —
Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat;
And the Priest was ready to vomit,
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,
And a nose as red as a comet.
‘A capital stew,’ the Fisherman said,
‘With cinnamon and sherry!’
And the Abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead
The Mayor of St. Edmund’s Bury!
 
 
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a bundle of beautiful things, —
A peacock’s tail, and a butterfly’s wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odours rolled,
That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted.
And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.
 
 
Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales:
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion’s thrilling words:
‘Smile, Lady, smile! I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet.
 
 
Till thou wilt gather roses white
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, Lady, smile! – I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, Lady, smile! for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin?
Or who would reign o’er vale and hill,
If woman’s heart were rebel still?’
 
 
One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair;
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.
‘Ah, ha!’ said the Fisher, in merry guise,
‘Her gallant was hooked before;’
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had blessed those deep-blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore!
 
 
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside;
A minstrel’s harp, and a miser’s chest,
A hermit’s cowl, and a baron’s crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine.
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop’s mitre!
 
 
From top to toe the Abbot shook,
As the Fisherman armed his golden hook,
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or wakened thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country’s vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry
With the thirst which only in death shall die:
Mark the mariner’s frenzied frown
As the swirling wherry settles down,
When peril has numbed the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:
 
 
Wilder far was the Abbot’s glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot’s trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer
But he signed – he knew not why or how, —
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.
‘O ho! O ho!
The cock doth crow;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine!
He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line;
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,
The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!’
 
 
The Abbot had preached for many years
With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against Emancipation:
His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs,
Had kept the Court an hour awake,
And the King himself three-quarters:
But ever since that hour, ’tis said,
He stammered and he stuttered,
As if an axe went through his head
With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o’er blessing, he stuttered o’er ban,
He stuttered drunk or dry;
And none but he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why!
 

W. M. Praed.

BOADICEA

AN ODE

 
When the British warrior-queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country’s gods,
 
 
Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Ev’ry burning word he spoke,
Full of rage and full of grief.
 
 
‘Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
’Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
 
 
‘Rome shall perish – write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
 
 
‘Rome, for empire far renown’d,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground —
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.
 
 
‘Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier’s name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
 
 
‘Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
 
 
‘Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.’
 
 
Such the bard’s prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
 
 
She, with all a monarch’s pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rush’d to battle, fought, and died;
Dying, hurl’d them at the foe.
 
 
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heav’n awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow’d,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
 

W. COWPER.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES [1831]

 
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height;
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world’s good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
 

W. Wordsworth.