WORDSWORTH. THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY, OR THE FORCE OF PRAYER. "WHAT is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; "What is good for a bootless bene ?" The Falconer to the Lady said; And she made answer, "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, The Pair have reach'd that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in This Striding-place is call'd THE STRID, A thousand years hath it borne that name, And hither is young Romilly come, 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 Till he rose a lifeless Corse. Now there is stillness in the Vale, If for a Lover the Lady wept, "rom death, and from the passion of death She weeps not for the wedding-day Her hope was a farther-looking hope, He was a Tree that stood alone, Long, long in darkness did she sit, The stately Priory was rear'd; And the Lady pray'd in heaviness But slowly did her succour come, Oh! there is never sorrow of heart If but to God we turn and ask THE KIRK OF ULPHA. THE KIRK OF ULPHA to the Pilgrim's eye Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's tent; How sweet were leisure! could it yield no more Than 'mid that wave-washed Church-yard to recline, From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine; THE YEW-TREE SEAT. IF Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Stranger! henceforth be warn'd; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt Which he has never used; that thought with him Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds |