XXVI.

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

OH! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may
The help which slackening Piety requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his Sires.

Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east and west, but why is by few persons exactly known; nor, that the degree of deviation from due east often noticeable in the ancient ones was determined, in each particular case, by the point in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon the day of the Saint to whom the church was dedicated. These observances of our Ancestors, and the causes of them, are the subject of the following stanzas.

When in the antique age of bow and spear
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,
Came Ministers of peace, intent to rear
The mother Church in yon sequestered vale;

Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,

Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.

They who had waited for that sign to trace
Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand
To the high Altar its determined place;

Mindful of Him who in the Orient born
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the Morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge Mankind.

So taught their creed;—nor failed the eastern sky,
Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse

The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die
Long as the Sun his gladsome course renews.

For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,

Our Christian Altar faithful to the East,
Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;

That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the dayspring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave.

XXVII.

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?

T "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.

* See the White Doe of Rylstone, ante.

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?

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
Till he rose a lifeless Corse.

Now there is stillness in the Vale,
And deep 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 farther-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!