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A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy Youth,

And thankful through a weary time,

That brought him up to manhood's prime.

- Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien ;
Among the shepherd grooms no mate
Hath he, a child of strength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy.

To his side the fallow-deer

Came and rested without fear;

The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;
The pair were servants of his eye

In their immortality;

. IIO

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And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight.

He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;

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His tongue could whisper words of might.

Now another day is come,

Fitter hope, and nobler doom;

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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,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

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Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,

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 :
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.

:

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Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth;
The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,

"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

1807.

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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?

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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.

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The 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;

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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

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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,
And proudly did its branches wave;
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

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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,
Nor failed at evensong.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!

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LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.

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