The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

W. WORDSWORTH.

The Force of Prayer

or, The Founding of Bolton's 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
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.

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 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 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 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!

W. WORDSWORTH.

≈ Albert Græme's Song

It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all!

That wine she had not tasted well,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)'
When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,
For Love was still the lord of all!

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
Pray for their souls who died for love,

For Love shall still be lord of all!
W. SCOTT.