Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers;
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them,-thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

7. Keats

CCLVI

ODE TO WINTER

Germany, December, 1800

When first the fiery-mantled Sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children four the Seasons flew :-
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
Rosy Summer, next advancing
Rush'd into her sire's embrace-

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,

On Calpe's olive-shaded steep

Or India's citron-cover'd isles.

More remote, and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;

S

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar star;
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren darkness at his side
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale-
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe

And trampling on her faded form;
Till light's returning Lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his northern field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-cover'd shield.

O'sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity—
Archangel! Power of desolation !
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart:
Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And gently on the orphan head

Of Innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds !

The sailor on his airy shrouds,

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep

And spectres walk along the deep.

Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,

Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

O winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan? Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low; But Man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.

T. Campbell

CCLVII

YARROW UNVISITED

1803

From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd,

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 Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviotdale, 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 seem'd of slight and scorn;

My true-love sigh'd for sorrow,

And look'd me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow !

'O 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
Today, nor yet tomorrow;
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

CCLVIII

YARROW VISITED

September, 1814

And is this-Yarrow ?-This the Stream
Of which my fancy cherish'd

So faithfully, a waking dream,
An image that hath perish'd?

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: