A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
Not only to us men, but to thy kind:
Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw
The soul of love, love's intellectual law :-
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
Our tears from passion and from reason came,
And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

THE FORCE OF PRAYER; OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.

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?

"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
From her youthful Romilly.

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

And holds a grayhound 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.

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,

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 grayhound 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 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 their 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 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 scattered 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 sun-beams; 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;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appalled 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 recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day

On which the traveller passed 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

*Tarn is a smalt mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains.

The dog had watched about the spot,

Or by his master's side:

How nourished 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 deferred

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 unchartered 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.

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!

PERSONAL TALK

I.

I AM not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,-
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.

II.

"YET life," you say, "is life; we nave seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe;

And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe

The languid mind into activity.

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."

Even be it so yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me.
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them :-sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet,
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes
He is a slave: the meanest we can meet!