Following in somewhat pensive mood, "its beautiful meanderings" through this hill-guarded valley, we come to St. Mary's Lake, lying in solemn but beautiful serenity among the mountains, whose heathy sides and bare cliffs are mirrored in her pellucid depths. "Nor fen nor sedge Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far, in the mirror bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, Save where of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine. Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing concealed might lie; Nor point retiring hides a dell Where swain or woodman lone might dwell; There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness; And silence adds,--though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills, In summer tide so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude." _Marmion._ Passing to the eastern extremity of the Lake, we come to Dryhope Tower, the birth-place of Mary Scott, the famous "Flower of Yarrow." Her lover, or husband, was slain by Scott of Tushielaw, from jealousy, or from a desire to secure her fortune, her father having promised to endow her with half his property. Seized by the imagination of the ancient Minnesingers, this incident became the subject of a ballad, or ballads of great beauty and pathos, well known through Scotland, and frequently sung "amang her green braes." This has invested Yarrow with a deep poetical charm, and given rise to a great variety of sweet and pathetic strains, affording a fine exemplification of the manner in which poetry grows, as by a natural law of progress. A single incident gathers around itself all beautiful images, all tender thoughts, feelings and passions, till the region in which it occurred becomes instinct with fantasy, and absolutely glows with a sort of conscious beauty. The very air is burdened with a melancholy charm. The stream meandering through the vale, and the winds whispering through the mountain glens or rippling the surface of St. Mary's lake, "murmur a music not their own." In a word, we have come from the real, everyday world, into one that is ideal, where, in the deep stillness of nature, the voices of the past reveal themselves to the listening soul. In this view we know not a more interesting or instructive series of poems than those relating to Yarrow. The first is the ballad of the "Dowie Dens," or rather, "Downs of Yarrow." This is variously printed, but we give the version of Motherwell.