And curious Stars are forth to peer

With frost-like brilliance, silvery clear, From the silent firmament

Here be our walk of sweet content.

In the twilight of this woodAnd awe-breathing solitude – Heathens of majestic mind, Might a fitting temple find Underneath some far-spread oak, Nature blindly to invoke. What is groined arch to this Mass of moveless leafiness? What are clustered pillars to The gnarled trunk of silvery hue, That, Titan-like, heaves its huge form Through centuries of change and storm, And stands as it were planted there, Alike for shelter and for prayer?

Hither, brave Fancy! Speed we on, Like Judah's bard to Lebanon! Every step we take, more nigh Mounts the spirit to the sky. Sounds of life are waxing low As we high and higher go,

And a deeper silence given

For choice communing with heaven;

On this eminence awhile

Rest we from our vigorous toil:

Forth our eyes, mind's scouts that be,
Cull fresh food for fantasy!
Like a map, beneath these skies,
Fair the summer landscape lies
Sea, and sand, and brook, and tree,
Meadow broad, and sheltered lea,
Shade and sunshine intermarried,
All deliciously varied :

Goodly fields of bladed corn,

Pastures green, where neatherd's horn
Bloweth through the livelong day,
Many a rudely jocund lay:

There be rows of waving trees,
Hymning saintliest homilies
To the weary passer-by,

Till his heart mount to his eye,
And his tingling feelings glow
With deep love for all below,
While his soul, in rapturous prayer,

Finds a temple everywhere.

William Motherwell

FR

YARROW UNVISITED.

ROM Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled;

And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said

66

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 Teviotdale, a land

Made blithe 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 sighed for sorrow,

And looked 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
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 loath 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!"

William Wordsworth.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

ET us go, lassie, go,

L'

To the braes o' Balquhither,

Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather,
Where the deer and the roe,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain ;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,

And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,