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XXII.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;1

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;

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And she made answer 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.

-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.

The striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore:

1 See "The White Doe of Rylstone."

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A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

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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.

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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.

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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.

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He was a tree that stood alone,

And proudly did its branches wave;

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And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

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,

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To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.

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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!

1807.

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XXIII.

A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION;

OR,

CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA-SHORE.

THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair,
Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty,
To aid a covert purpose, cried-" O ye
Approaching Waters of the deep, that share
With this green isle my fortunes, come not

where

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Your Master's throne is set."-Deaf was the

Sea;

Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree

Less than they heed a breath of wanton air.
-Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne,
Said to his servile Courtiers," Poor the reach,
The undisguised extent, of mortal sway!
He only is a King, and he alone

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Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach) Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven obey."

This just reproof the prosperous Dane Drew from the influx of the main,

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For some whose rugged northern mouths would

strain

At oriental flattery;

And Canute (fact more worthy to be known)

From that time forth did for his brows disown The ostentatious symbol of a crown;

Esteeming earthly royalty

Contemptible as vain.

Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, Her darling Alfred, might have spoken; To cheer the remnant of his host

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When he was driven from coast to coast, Distressed and harassed, but with mind un

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broken:

My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent That rose, and steadily advanced to fill

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The shores and channels, working Nature's will Among the mazy streams that backward went, And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent: And now, his task performed, the flood stands

still,

At the green base of many an inland hill,
In placid beauty and sublime content!

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Such the repose that sage

and hero find;

Such measured rest the sedulous and good
Of humbler name; whose souls do, like the
flood

Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind,
Neither to be diverted nor withstood,

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Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned."

1816.

XXIV.

"A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on!"

-What trick of memory to my voice hath brought

This mournful iteration? For though Time, The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, on this brow

Planting his favourite silver diadem,

Nor he, nor minister of his—intent

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To run before him, hath enrolled me yet,
Though not unmenaced, among those who lean
Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight.
-0 my own Dora, my beloved child!

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Should that day come-but hark! the birds salute

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The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the east;
For me, thy natural leader, once again
Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst
A tottering infant, with compliant stoop
From flower to flower supported; but to curb
Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the
lawn,

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Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge
Of foaming torrents.-From thy orisons
Come forth; and, while the morning air is yet
Transparent as the soul of innocent youth,

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