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THE FORCE OF PRAYER;
OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.
"WHAT is good for a bootless bene?"
"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 look of the falconer's eye; And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly.
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,
THE FORCE OF PRAYER.
A thousand years it hath borne that name,
And hither is young Romilly come,
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,
Now there is stillness in the vale,
And deep, unspeaking sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a lover the lady wept,
She weeps not for the wedding-day,
He was a tree that stood alone,
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
The stately priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
And the lady prayed in heaviness
Oh, there is never sorrow of heart
STILL young and fine! but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled though fresh and new; How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burning flaming arch did first descry;
When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distant and low, I can in thine see Him Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne, And minds the covenant betwixt all and one.
AROUND, around flew each sweet sound,
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
And now 'twas like all instruments,
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet still the sails made on
In the leafy month of June,
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
Both man and bird and beast:
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small; For the dear God, who loveth us, He made and loveth all.
A colloquial Poem.
JACOB, I do not love to see thy nose