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Still on he went, still on he went,

Till palace, tower, and wall,
Sank down in one unseemly mass,

And ruin cover'd all.

Who art thou, stern destroyer ? say

“ I'm known in every climeMan and his works all pass away, Beneath the hand of TIME.”


Young Romilly through Barden woods

Is ranging high and low,
And holds a greyhound in a leash, [2]

To let slip on 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. [1] Bolton Priory-a celebrated Abbey, now in ruins, romantically situated on the banks of the Wharf, in Yorkshire.

[2] Leash-a leathern thong.

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

But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap! The boy is in the arms of Wharf!

And strangled with a merciless force-
For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse!
Long, long in darkness his mother sat,

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 (1) joined a mournful voice,

Nor failed at even-song. [2]
And the lady prayed in heaviness,

That looked not for relief;
But slowly did her succour come,

And patience to her grief.

[!] Matins-morning prayers, as performed or chanted in Roman Catholic churches.

[2] Even-song-evening service, corresponding to that of the morning.

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.


Ring-dove! resting benignly calm,
Tell my bosom thy secret balm ;
Blackbird ! straining thy tuneful throat,
Teach my spirit thy thankful note;
Small Wren! building thy happy nest,
Tell me where is a home of rest;
Eagle! cleaving the vaulted sky,
Teach my nature to soar as high;
Sky-lark! winging thy way to heaven,
Be thy track to my footsteps given !


O weep not, mother dear,

Since I can weep no more,
For God has wiped away the tear

That dimm'd my eyes before.
In yonder house of clay,

I could not speak to thee;
could not that sweet voice obey
Which breathed such love to me.

But now, on angel's wing,

I trace my heavenly flight, And now an angel's song I sing,

And soar in fields of light. I learn His name to bless,

Who came an infant here; Who sojurned in the wilderness,

Because our souls were dear. Weep not that I am blest,

That, through redeeming grace, Mine is a better rest

Than even thy kind embrace. Thou couldst not save from woe,

Or quell my foes within; Too soon I might have strayed below,

And sought the path of sin.
But safe for ever here,

I tread on holy ground;
And still I watch thee, mother dear,

And, viewless, hover round.
And when thy spirit flies

To this bright world of love; Then will I gladly close thine eyes,

And welcome thee above.

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To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all

Within that house secure he hides
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself, has chattels [1] none,
Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
1. Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combin'd)
If finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

Cowper. [1] Chattels-movable property.

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