A constant influence, a peculiar grace; Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; Come when it will, is equal to the need: Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans It is his darling passion to approve ; More brave for this, that he hath much to 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall and sleep without his fame, 1806. 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 ? “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, The pair have reached that fearful chasm, For lordly Wharf is there pent in 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, 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, For never more was young Romilly seen Now there is stillness in the vale, If for a lover the Lady wept, From death, and from the passion of death ;- 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; |