To be at Yarrow—this is no high wish,
And yet what magic wraps the name. To stand
Alone in the Parnassus of our land
With every pulse within the breast aflush
With all that song will sanctify, and slip
Into those feelings which for ever make
A Paradise where'er they breathe, and take
The purer utterance of the poet's lip,
And join it to the stream's whose waves still con,
With an unalter'd eloquence, the tale
Which is immortal, and hath lit the vale
With a most hallow'd lustre, and a tone
That speaks to all that can its spell prolong
By dreams of love and lovers and of song.