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 deep 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. 257. 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 sighed 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.