THE FORCE OF PRAYER. * THE FOUNDING OR, 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, -Young Romilly through Barden woods. 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, * See the White Doe of Rylstone. And hither is young Romilly come, And what may now forbid That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, He sprang in glee,-for what cared he That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the leash hung back, The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by a merciless force, For never more was young Romilly seen Now there is stillness in the vale, If for a lover the Lady wept, From death, and from the passion of death;— Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. She weeps not for the wedding-day Her hope was a further-looking hope, He was a tree that stood alone, Long, long in the 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; And the Lady prayed in heaviness, But slowly did her succor come, Oh! there is never sorrow of heart If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our friend! 1808 TO JOANNA AMID the smoke of cities did you pass The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow to meet the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendship with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, While I was seated, now some ten days past He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. -T was that delightful season when the broom, And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short-and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found Along so vast a surface, all at once, Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side To shelter from some object of her fear. -And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons |