And what in quality or act is best 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; Great issues, good or bad for human kind, And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he fore saw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, 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?" 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. More brave for this, that he hath much to Young Romilly through Barden woods love: 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high 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, The pair have reached that fearful chasm, This striding-place is called THE Strid, 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? 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 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; And the Lady prayed in heaviness Oh there is never sorrow of heart 1808. A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION; CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA- THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair Your Master's throne is set."-Deaf was Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree Said to his servile Courtiers,-" Poor the The undisguised extent, of mortal sway! of Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach) Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth and heaven, obey.' This just reproof the prosperous Dane 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 Now hear what one of elder days, 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, 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 Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge Transparent as the soul of innocent youth, 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 Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond Now also shall the page of classic lore, : shades More awful, where, advancing hand in hand, XXIV. ODE TO LYCORIS. MAY, 1817. I. AN age hath been when Earth was proud To be sustained and Mortals bowed |