What this imported I could ill divine : The last stone-Pillar on a dark hill-top. The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head; Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green; So that you just might say, as then I said, "Here in old time the hand of man hath been." I looked upon the hill both far and near, I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! But something ails it now; the spot is curst. "You see these lifeless stumps of aspen woodSome say that they are beeches, others elmsThese were the Bower; and here a Mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms! "The Arbour does its own condition tell; You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Strean: ; "There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, "Some say that here a murder has been done, "What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have past! Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, Are but three bounds-and look, Sir, at this last- "For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; What cause the Hart might have to love this place, "Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, "In April here beneath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing; Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone." "Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; "The Being, that is in the clouds and air, For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. "She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall all be overgrown. "One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 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 "What is good for a bootless bene ?” And she made answer 66 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, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. 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 ; Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 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, The stately Priory was reared; |