The silence that is in the starry sky,

The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage virtue of the Race,

Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place

The wisdom which adversity had bred.

L

Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth;

The Shepherd-lord was honored more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,

"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

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THE FORCE OF PRAYER;

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. — A TRADITION.

"What is good for a bootless bene ?"

With these dark words begins my Tale ;

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring

When Prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The Falconer to the Lady said;

And she made answer,

66 ENDLESS SORROW!"

For she knew that her Son was dead.

She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

ΙΟ

-Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.

The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore :

A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across THE STRID?

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He sprang in glee, for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?

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But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap.

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force;

For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long, unspeaking sorrow :
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.

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If for a lover the Lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death ;-
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow:

Her hope was a further-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;

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And Wharf, as he moved along,

To matins joined a mournful voice,

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Nor failed at even-song.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness

That looked not for relief!

But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart

That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn, and ask

Of Him to be our friend!

LAODAMIA.

1814. 1815.

"WITH sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore:-

Restore him to my sight - great Jove, restore!"

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens, and her eye expands;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived? - O joy!
What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold?
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
It is if sense deceive her not - 't is He!
And a God leads him, wingèd Mercury !

That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 20 Laodamía! that at Jove's command

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp:
Again that consunimation she essayed :
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The Phantom parts - but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.

"Protesiláus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice;
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne:
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appall me have the Gods bestowed
This precious boon, and blest a sad abode."

"Great Jove, Laodamía! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect: - Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.

And something also did my worth obtain ;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not withhold:
A generous cause a victim did demand;

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;

A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain."

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"Supreme of Heroes bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest

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