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I prayed for thee, and that thy end were past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hadst lived, till every thing that cheers In thee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away; And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees,— I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, Found scarcely any where in like degree! For love, that comes to all; the holy sense, Best gift of God, in thee was most intense; A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, A tender sympathy, which did thee bind Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law:— Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame; Our tears from passion and from reason came, And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!
VOL. Ii. L
THE FORCE OF PRAYER;
THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. A TRADITION.
"eafjat is 3006 fot a bootless bene >"
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?
"aafjat ts goot) tot a bootless bene?"
The Falconer to the Lady said; .
And she made answer " Endless sorrow!"
For she knew that her Son was dead.
She knew it by the Falconer's words,
—Young Romilly through Barden Woods
And the Pair have reached that fearful chasm,
This Striding-place is called The Strid,
And hither is young Romilly come,
He sprang in glee,—for what cared he
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
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
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day
He was a Tree that stood alone,
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
The stately Priory was reared;
And the Lady prayed in heaviness
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart