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-Young Romilly through Barden Woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,

To let slip upon buck or doe.

And the pair have reach'd that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is call'd "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,
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 check'd 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

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.

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

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;
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 rear'd,
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins join'd a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at evensong.

And the lady pray'd in heaviness
That look'd not for relief!

But slowly did her succour 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!

FIDELITY.

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts and searches with his eyes
Among the scatter'd rocks:

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen
Glancing from that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in hollow or on height;

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear ;

What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn* below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;

From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austere ;

Thither the rainbow comes-the cloud-
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams: and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past,
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may ;

"Tarn" is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains.

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appall'd discoverer with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recall'd the name,

And who he was, and whence he came ;
Remember'd, too, the very day

On which the traveller pass'd this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,

Repeating the same timid cry,

This dog had been through three months' space

A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day

On which the traveller thus had died
The dog had watch'd about the spot,
Or by his master's side:

How nourish'd here through such long time
He knows, who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

ODE TO DUTY.

STERN daughter of the voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;

Thou who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth,

Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;

Who do thy work, and know it not:

May joy be theirs while life shall last!

And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And blest are they who in the main

This faith, even now, do entertain:

Live in the spirit of this creed ;

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust;
Full oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd

The task imposed, from day to day;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought;
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance desires:

My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;

And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful power!

I call thee: I myself commend

Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh let my weakness have an end!

Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give;

And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live!

Miscellaneous Sonnets.

PREFATORY SONNET.

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find short solace there, as I have found.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE.

PRAISED be the art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopp'd that band of travellers on their way
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And show'd the bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchor'd in her sheltering bay.

Soul-soothing art! which morning, noontide, even,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry!
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment, caught from fleeting time,
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die ;
O friend thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade;
Such strains of rapture as* the genius play'd
In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high;
He who stood visible to Mirza's eye,
Never before to human sight betray'd.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread!
The visionary arches are not there,

Nor the green islands, nor the shining seas;
Yet sacred is to me this mountain's head,
From which I have been lifted on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

See the "Vision of Mirza" in the Spectator.

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