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-He who, though thus endued as with a sense
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—
THE FORCE OF PRAYER *;
THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.
[AN Appendage to the "White Doe." My friend, Mr. Rogers, has also written on the subject. The story is preserved in Dr. Whitaker's History of Craven—a topographical writer of first-rate merit in all that concerns the past; but such was his aversion from the modern spirit, as shown in the spread of manufactories in those districts of which he treats, that his readers are left entirely ignorant both of the progress of these arts and their real bearing upon the comfort, virtues, and happiness of the inhabitants. While wandering on foot through the fertile valleys and over the moorlands of the Apennine that divides Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be delighted with observing the number of substantial cottages that had sprung up on every side, each having its little plot of fertile ground won from the surrounding waste. A bright and warm fire, if needed, was always to be found in these dwellings. The father was at his loom; the children looked healthy and happy. Is it not to be feared that the increase of mechanic power has done away with many of these blessings, and substituted many evils? Alas! if these evils grow, how are they to be checked, and where is the remedy to be found? Political economy will not supply it; that is certain : we must look to something deeper, purer, and higher.]
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 ?
* See the White Doe of Rylstone.
"What is good for a bootless bene ?”
And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!"
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,
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
This striding-place is called THE STRID,
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
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,
Now there is stillness in the vale,
If for a lover the Lady wept,
From death, and from the passion of death ;—
She weeps not for the wedding-day
Her hope was a further-looking hope,
He was a tree that stood alone,
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
The stately Priory was reared;
And the Lady prayed in heaviness
But slowly did her succour come,
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend!
A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION;
CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA-SHORE.
[THE first and last fourteen lines of this poem each make a sonnet, and were composed as such; but I thought that by intermediate lines they might be connected so as to make a whole. One or two expressions are taken from Milton's History of England.]
THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair,
Your Master's throne is set.”—Deaf was the Sea;