THE FORCE OF PRAYER; OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. A Tradition. "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; Young Romilly through Barden woods The pair have reached that fearful chasm, This striding place is called the Strid, yore: THE FORCE OF PRAYER. A thousand years it hath borne that name, And hither is young Romilly come, And what may now forbid That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, He sprang in glee,-for what cared he 31 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, If for a lover the lady wept, A solace she might borrow From Death and from the passion of Death,- She weeps not for the wedding-day, -Her hope was a further-looking hope, He was a tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave ; Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, "Let there be In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, The stately priory was reared; And the lady prayed in heaviness Oh, there is never sorrow of heart WORDSWORTH. THE RAINBOW. 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; SWEET SOUNDS. When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 3338 The youthful world's grey fathers, in one knot Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; 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. HENRY VAUGHAN. SWEET SOUNDS. AROUND, around flew each sweet sound, Sometimes a-dropping from the sky And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute, And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased; yet still the sails made on A noise like of a hidden brook CONCLUSION. Farewell, farewell! but this I tell He prayeth best who loveth best COLERIDGE. (Ancient Mariner.) THE PIG. A colloquial Poem. JACOB, I do not love to see thy nose |