And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labors good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows
-Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honorable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the

same

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in

wait

For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,

Like showers of manna, if they come at all; Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,

Or mild concerns of ordinary life,

A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven
joined

Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man in-
spired;

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law

In calmness made, and sees what he fore

saw;

Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
-He who, though thus endued as with a

sense

And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;

From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name-
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering,
draws

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:

This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be. 1806,

XXI.

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?"
The Falconer to the Lady said;
And she made answer, "ENDLESS SOR-
ROW!"

For she knew that her Son was dead.

She knew it by the Falconer's words, And from the love which was in her soul And from the look of the Falconer's eye; For her youthful Romilly.

love:

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought of in obscurity,-
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be

won:

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last

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.

This 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.

See the White Doc of Rylstone.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, Shall bound across THE STRID?

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long, unspeaking, sorrow.
Whart 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 death;

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
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
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 even-song.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend!

1808.

A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION;
OR,

CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA-
SHORE.

THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair
Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty,
To aid a covert purpose, cried-"O ye
Approaching Waters of the deep, that share
With this green isle my fortunes, come not
where

Your Master's throne is set."-Deaf was
the sea;

Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree
Less than they heed a breath of wanton air.
-Then Canute, rising from the invaded
throne,

Said to his servile Courtiers,-" Poor the
reach,

The undisguised extent, of mortal sway!
He only is a King, and he alone

of Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach)

Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth and heaven, obey.'

This just reproof the prosperous Dane
Drew from the influx of the main,

For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain

At oriental flattery;

And Canute (fact more worthy to be known) From that time forth did for his brows dis

own

The ostentatious symbol of a crown
Esteeming earthly royalty
Contemptible as vain.

Now hear what one of elder days,
Rich theme of England's fondest praise,
Her darling Alfred, might have spoken;
To cheer the remnant of his host

When he was driven from coast to coast, Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken:

"My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent

That rose, and steadily advanced to fill The shores and channels, working Nature's will

Among the mazy streams that backward

went,

And in the sluggish pools where ships are

pent;

"A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on '" -What trick of memory to my voice hath brought

This mournful iteration? For though Time, The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, on this brow

Planting his favorite silver diadem,
Nor he, nor minister of his-intent
To run before him, hath enrolled me yet,
Though not unmenaced among those who
lean

Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight.

O my own Dora, my beloved child! Should that day come-but hark! the birds

salute

The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the

east;

For me, thy natural leader, once again
Impatient to con luct thee, not as erst
A tottering infant, with compliant stoop
From flower to flower supported; but to curb
Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er
the lawn,

Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge
Of foaming torrents.-From thy orisons
Come forth; and while the morning air is
yet

Transparent as the soul of innocent youth,
Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy way,
And now precede thee, winding to and fro,
Till we by perseverance gain the top
Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precip-
itous

Kindles intense desire for powers withheld From this corporeal frame; whereon who stands

Is seized with strong incitement to push forth His arms, as swimmers use, and plungedread thought,

erects

Her temples, fearless for the stately work, Though waves, to every breeze, its higharched roof,

And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools

Of reverential awe will chiefly seek
In the still summer noon, while beams of
light,

Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond
Traceably gliding through the dusk, recall
To mind the living presences of nuns ;
A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood,
Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom
Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve,
To Christ, the Sun of righteousness, es-
poused.

Now also shall the page of classic lore,
To these glad eyes from bondage freed, again
Lie oper and the book of Holy Writ,
Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield
To heights more glorious still, and into

:

shades

More awful, where, advancing hand in hand,
We may be taught, O Darling of my care!
To calm the affections, elevate the soul,
And consecrate our lives to truth and love.
1816.

XXIV.

ODE TO LYCORIS. MAY, 1817.

I.

AN age hath been when Earth was proud
Of lustre too intense

To be sustained and Mortals bowed
The front in self-defence.
Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed,
Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed
While on the wing the Urchin played,
Could fearlessly approach the shade?
-Enough for one soft vernal day,
If 1, a bard of ebbing time,
And nurtured in a fickle clime