Amid these scenes, beneath these skies, I deem'd were all at rest. Dark rolls the fatal Yarrow's stream, Beneath the moon's inconstant beam; And in her fitful tone, She seems to mingle with the blast A song of sorrows gone! In yonder shadowy spectral keep Fair MARY SCOTT has held her bower; And yonder faded like a flower," Her slaughter'd lover lost. The Douglas burn, behind yon height So bright and fair to see- * The sorrows of Mary Scott, "the Flower of Yarrow," are the theme of many of our most exquisite ballads. St. Mary's Lake,* in dream-like peace So bright, so fair, so wild I ween *This beautiful sheet of water lies embosomed among the lofty hills in the western extremity of Selkirkshire. There is not, perhaps, a more interesting scene in all Scotland-whether with respect to its natural beauty, or the romantic character which history and poetry have bestowed upon it. Here, in the olden time, dwelt, in their almost inaccessible strong-holds, some of the chiefs of those Border Troopers, who maintained themselves in a kind of rugged regal state, with a score or two of good lances, or men at arms. Situated at the extreme verge of that part of the border which was almost continually in a hostile state with the English borders, they could rarely be caught by those whom they had robbed; for it would have been almost impracticable for any thing less than an army to follow a Scott or a Cockburn to his "keep," through the thieves of the Ettrick and Liddell waters. Sometimes, however, in spite of danger and death, some courageous little band of English have threaded the dark hills and moors between the Eden and the Yarrow and besides the traditions which still form the burden of many a quaint old ballad-many an unrecorded gallant action has hallowed, with a wild interest, the now peaceful and pastoral hills of St. Mary's. Follow the course of any of the mountain torrents which discharge their waters into St. Mary's Lake, or the Yarrow which issues from it Feeding it as a mother, who doth make and within an hour or two's walk, you will find yourself seated among the mosscovered and time-stained relics of a once proud and powerful border chieftain's tower. There is indeed a strange interest in reading or remembering an ancient record of human passion, powerful but quickly passing away, while seated among the ruins of the scene where it befel. But the romance that clothes every hill, and valley, and stream in this classic country, has not been alone bestowed on it by dark events of deadly struggles, or hapless lovers. Though the hardy moss-troopers, sweeping, with out-stretched lances, across the vallies where the sheep now repose peacefully, were indeed the "Tis hallow'd by the mighty dead, By beauty, grief and song! And living genius in its power, most frequent passengers among these wild districts, yet trains of a more gay and gentle character have also enlivened the savage solitude. At one time these hill sides were covered with a thick forest, where the roe-buck found a pleasant shelter, and the mighty "belling" of the red deer came down the autumnal blast. The hill fox, the ptarmigan, and the black cock of the woods found here dwellings fitted for their various habits, and the eagle held, for ages, his inaccessible throne among the cliffs. Hither, therefore, the old warrior-monarchs of Scotland came, in their wild barbaric splendour, to a spot fitted for their rugged and active natures. The gray rocks around have re-echoed to their jovial cries, and the green wood rung to the clatter of their courser's hoofs. Here too, in later times, the stately hunting train of Queen Mary has trooped through the glades of the forest, with their lovely mistress at their head. Ah! who could deem, to gaze upon that vision of beauty and of grace, carolling as gaily as the birds among the green boughs around her, and with a hundred brave gentlemen by her side, who would shed their best blood for her sake-who could deem that a few years would see that rightful queen, that lovely lady, in a lonely prison-on a bloody scaffold! Amid these retreats, also, the Covenanters have often found refuge from their oppressors. To the most inaccessible parts of these mountains they retired, with their swords and their Bibles, to snatch a fearful interval of peace from the barbarous persecution of their tyrants. Here they met in doubt and in secrecy, swearing to preserve among these rocks all that was now left them-their liberty-and not unfrequently sealing with their blood the vow which they had taken. And have they not won from their children the undying gratitude which all men must feel to those who have preserved them that noblest of all rights-the free right of thought? So much has ancient times done to render the neighbourhood of St. Mary's Lake dear to the lover of antiquity, poetry, and liberty. Yet would she have been famous without any of these things. Fame does not alone belong to the illustrious dead. The illustrious living can also hallow to the minds of men those spots which their genius delights to honour. Like those places visited by the Saints of the Catholic Church, whatever they touch becomes holy ground. And over what scene The clanging hoof, the wild deer's tread, The stately hunting train Gay glittering through the greenwood trees, has more of this divine afflatus been breathed, than that of St. Mary's Lake? Sir Walter Scott has spoken of it as one who felt all the intense beauty and sacred loveliness which belong to its sky-seeking hills, its peaceful shores, and placid bosom. Wordsworth too, the Plato of the Lakes, has felt it, as witness his beautiful lines:"The swan on sweet St. Mary's Lake Floats double-swan and shadow!" "And Mary's Lake, through all her depths, Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted." Wilson also has allowed his splendid imagination to luxuriate in his recollections of St. Mary's, and pours forth all the dazzling grandeur of his diction in his description of it. Many others there are, doubtless, who have been smitten with admiration of of its perfect loveliness; but let us mention its last-perhaps its greatest claim to interest. Mr. James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, dwelt nearly all his life near its shores. The Yarrow flows from St. Mary's Lake; and on the banks of the Yarrow, while she is yet young in her course, stands the little white-washed cottage where the "Shepherd Bard" spent the last years of his life. Had the murmur of the Yarrow no intelligible voice to him as it streamed past his door? Did he not hear the music of these old hymns which record the dark events that have befallen in her valley? Did she not bear the music of many of his own sweet lyrics in her tone? Aye and he knew that his memory would be sacred while the green hills look down on St. Mary's Lake; and that his little cottage home, on the banks of the salmon-haunted Yarrow, will be the pilgrim-shrine of genius, so long as genius shall inhabit Scotland. I shall never again see the cheerful face of Scotia's darling bard-I shall never again hear the voice of "the old man eloquent"-I shall never again be happy by his side, among the social core, or by the banks of the Yarrow, or high up among his own native mountains; but while my heart shall beat with human emotion, it shall be with gratitude and pride that I have been allowed to walk by the side and to clasp the hand of the dearest poet of my boyhood. Where trooper shot across the steep Gone are the glittering princely throng Yet is not Yarrow's glory veil'd, Has twin'd his name in deathless green With MARY SCOTT and SCOTLAND'S QUEEN, In strains o'er Scotia heard. May Heaven its choicest blessings pour Upon his little cottage bower White rising o'er the stream! And while the Yarrow seeks the main, Bright as the noon-day beam! |