I prayed for thee, and that thy end were past; For thou hadst lived, till every thing that cheers Extreme old had wasted thee away; age And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; VOL. II. L XXIII. 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, -Young Romilly through Barden Woods Is ranging high and low; And holds a Greyhound in a leash, To let slip upon buck or doe. And 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? 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, 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 Now there is stillness in the Vale, And long unspeaking sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 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 farther-looking hope, He was a Tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave; 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; 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! |