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.