Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she

Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

William Wordsworth.

BOLTON ABBEY.

ENTRANCED with varied loveliness, I gaze

On Bolton's hallowed fane. Its hoary walls,
More eloquent, in ruin, than the halls

Of princely pomp, their solemn features raise
Mid thick embowering elms. Meek cattle graze
The peaceful pastures circling it around;

Old Wharf flows sparkling by with pensive sound,
And heathery hills look down through purple haze.
All lend their aid to prompt these humble lays;
Some kind and soothing influence all have given,
The mouldering abbey and the moss-grown grave,
The breezy moorland and the rock-nurst wave,
Cliff, meadow, forest, all direct to heaven,
All blend their voices in one psalm of praise.

Newman Hall.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.

A TRADITION.

WHAT is good for a bootless bene ? ”

"WHAT

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 bene? 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;
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,
To let slip upon 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.

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.

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 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
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 further-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 reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.

And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.

O, 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!

William Wordsworth.

Boston.

ST. BOTOLPH'S TOWN.

BOSTON in Lincolnshire takes its name from its founder, St. Botolph, who flourished about the middle of the seventh century. At present the chief glory of the town is its church-tower, built after the model of that of Antwerp Cathedral, and renowned as one of the most beautiful in England.

ST

Hither across the plains

T. Botolph's Town!
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
There came a Saxon monk, and founded here
A priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,

So that thereof no vestige now remains;
Only a name, that spoken loud and clear,
And echoed in another hemisphere,

Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St. Botolph's Town! - Far over leagues of land
And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,
And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand
A landmark, and a symbol of the power
That lies concentred in a single word.

Anonymous.

IT

BOSTON IN LINCOLNSHIRE.

is not for what you are or do,
Or for any treasures rare,

That I turn my steps and heart to you,
But for the name you bear.

Ancestral name! that must cross the sea
Its farthest fame to know,
And to other soil transplanted be,
That its proudest branch might grow.

It is not that your minster-pile

Looks proudly toward the deep, —
The loftiest tower of Britain's isle
In valley or on steep,

But that beneath that lordly tower
A simple chapel stands,