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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? | |
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| “What is good for a bootless bene?” | 5 |
| The falconer to the lady said; | |
| And she made answer, “Endless sorrow!” | |
| For she knew that her son was dead. | |
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| She knew it by the falconer’s words, | |
| And from the look of the falconer’s eye; | 10 |
| And from the love which was in her soul | |
| For her youthful Romilly. | |
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| —Young Romilly through Barden woods | |
| Is ranging high and low; | |
| And holds a greyhound in a leash, | 15 |
| To let slip upon buck or doe. | |
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| The pair have reached that fearful chasm, | |
| How tempting to bestride! | |
| For lordly Wharf is there pent in | |
| With rocks on either side. | 20 |
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| The 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. | |
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| And hither is young Romilly come, | 25 |
| And what may now forbid | |
| That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, | |
| Shall bound across the Strid? | |
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| He sprang in glee; for what cared he | |
| That the river was strong and the rocks were steep? | 30 |
| But the greyhound in the leash hung back, | |
| And checked him in his leap. | |
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| The boy is in the arms of Wharf, | |
| And strangled by a merciless force; | |
| For never more was young Romilly seen | 35 |
| Till he rose a lifeless corse. | |
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| Now there is stillness in the vale, | |
| And long, unspeaking sorrow: | |
| Wharf shall be to pitying hearts | |
| A name more sad than Yarrow. | 40 |
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| 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. | |
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| She weeps not for the wedding-day | 45 |
| Which was to be to-morrow: | |
| Her hope was a further-looking hope, | |
| And hers is a mother’s sorrow. | |
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| He was a tree that stood alone, | |
| And proudly did its branches wave; | 50 |
| And the root of this delightful tree | |
| Was in her husband’s grave! | |
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| Long, long in darkness did she sit, | |
| And her first words were, “Let there be | |
| In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, | 55 |
| A stately priory!” | |
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| The stately priory was reared; | |
| And Wharf, as he moved along, | |
| To matins joined a mournful voice, | |
| Nor failed at even-song. | 60 |
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| And the lady prayed in heaviness | |
| That looked not for relief! | |
| But slowly did her succor come, | |
| And a patience to her grief. | |
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| O, there is never sorrow of heart | 65 |
| That shall lack a timely end, | |
| If but to God we turn, and ask | |
| Of him to be our friend! | |
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