A weak and cowardly untruth! And thankful through a weary time, That brought him up to manhood's prime. - Again he wanders forth at will, To his side the fallow-deer Came and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, In their immortality; . IIO 115 120 125 And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, He knew the rocks which Angels haunt His tongue could whisper words of might. Now another day is come, Fitter hope, and nobler doom; 135 Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed, How he, long forced in humble walks to go, 160 Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the Race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : : 165 Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth; "The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. 1807. 170 THE FORCE OF PRAYER; OR THE FOUNDING A TRADITION. "What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my Tale; And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring ee And she made answer ENDLESS SORROW!" 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. The pair have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. 5 ΙΟ 15 20 The striding-place is called THE Strid, A name which it took of yore : 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, He sprang in glee,- for what cared he That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep? The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen 35 Now there is stillness in the vale, If for a lover the Lady wept, A solace she might borrow From death, and from the passion of death; She weeps not for the wedding-day 40 45 Which was to be to-morrow : Her hope was a further-looking hope, And hers is a mother's sorrow. He was a tree that stood alone, Long, long in darkness did she sit, ee 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, And the Lady prayed in heaviness 50 55 60 LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; 5 |