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, Goodly fields of bladed corn, Pastures green, where neatherd's horn There be rows of waving trees, Till his heart mount to his eye, Finds a temple everywhere. William Motherwell FR YARROW UNVISITED. ROM Stirling Castle we had seen 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, "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day "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 "O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, We'll wander Scotland thorough; "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, "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, 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, I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; 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, |