| |
| “What is good for a bootless bené?” | |
| 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 bené?” | 5 |
| 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, | |
| And from the look of the falconer’s eye; | 10 |
| And from the love which was in her soul | |
| For her youthful Romilly. | |
| |
| —Young Romilly through Barden Woods | |
| Is ranging high and low; | |
| And holds a greyhound in a leash, | 15 |
| To let slip up on 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. | 20 |
| |
| 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. | |
| |
| And hither is young Romilly come, | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
| —But the greyhound in the leash hung back, | |
| And checked him in his leap. | |
| |
| 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. | |
| |
| Now there is stillness in the vale, | |
| And long unspeaking sorrow: | |
| Wharf shall be, to pitying hearts, | |
| A name more sad than Yarrow. | 40 |
| |
| 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 | 45 |
| Which was to be to-morrow: | |
| Her hope was a farther-looking hope, | |
| And hers is a mother’s sorrow. | |
| |
| 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! | |
| |
| 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!” | |
| |
| The stately Priory was reared; | |
| And Wharf, as he moved along, | |
| To matins joined a mournful voice, | |
| Nor failed at evensong. | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| That shall lack a timely end, | |
| If but to God we turn and ask | |
| Of Him to be our friend! | |
| |
