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.

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,

66

And her first words were, Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!

But slowly did her succour 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!

1808.

XXIII.

DION.

(SEE PLUTARCH).

1.

SERENE, and fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
And what pure homage then did wait
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere—
That he, not too elate

With self-sufficing solitude,

But with majestic lowliness endued, Might in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse fate.

II.

Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day!

Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield, Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,

To Syracuse advance in bright array.

Who leads them on ?-The anxious people see
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad!
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear
The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are entered, on each hand,
Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine
In seemly order stand,

On tables set, as if for rites divine ;

And, as the great Deliverer marches by,

He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown; And flowers are on his person thrown

In boundless prodigality;

Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer,
Invoking Dion's tutelary care,

As if a very Deity he were!

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn!

Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads

Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades! For him who to divinity aspired,

Not on the breath of popular applause,

But through dependence on the sacred laws

Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired,
Intent to trace the ideal path of right

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learned to measure with sublime delight;— But he hath overleaped the eternal bars;

And, following guides whose craft holds no consent
With aught that breathes the ethereal element,
Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,

Unjustly shed, though for the public good.

Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ;

And oft his cogitations sink as low

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go;

But whence that sudden check? that fearful start!

He hears an uncouth sound

Anon his lifted eyes