Still on he went, still on he went, Who art thou, stern destroyer? say— Man and his works all pass away, Hudson. 65. THE STRID, OR THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. [1] Young Romilly through Barden woods And holds a greyhound in a leash, [2] 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," yore; A thousand years hath it borne that name, [1] Bolton Priory-a celebrated Abbey, now in ruins, romantically situated on the banks of the Wharf, in Yorkshire. [2] Leash-a leathern thong 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, And checked him in his leap! The boy is in the arms of Wharf! And strangled with a merciless forceFor never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless corse! Long, long in darkness his mother sat, And her first words were, "Let there be The stately priory was reared, And Wharf, as he moved along, And the lady prayed in heaviness, [1] Matins-morning prayers, as performed or chanted in Roman Catholic churches. [2] Even-song-evening service, corresponding to that of the morning. Oh! there is never sorrow of heart, If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our friend. Wordsworth. 66. THE EXAMPLE OF BIRDS. Ring-dove! resting benignly calm, 67. THE BABE IN HEAVEN TO ITS MOTHER. O weep not, mother dear, Since I can weep no more, For God has wiped away the tear In yonder house of clay, I could not speak to thee; could not that sweet voice obey I But now, on angel's wing, I trace my heavenly flight, I learn His name to bless, Weep not that I am blest, That, through redeeming grace, Mine is a better rest Than even thy kind embrace. Thou couldst not save from woe, But safe for ever here, I tread on holy ground; And still I watch thee, mother dear, And, viewless, hover round. And when thy spirit flies To this bright world of love; Then will I gladly close thine eyes, And welcome thee above. 68. THE SNAIL. FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, Together. Within that house secure he hides Give but his horns the slightest touch, Displeasure. Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Whole treasure. Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, The faster. Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combin'd) If finding it, he fails to find Its master. [1] Chattels-movable property. Cowper. |