From champions of the desperate law

Which from their own blind hearts they draw;

Who tempt their reason to deny

God, whom their passions dare defy,

And boast that they alone are free
Who reach this dire extremity!

But turn we from these 'bold bad' men;
The way, mild lady! that hath led
Down to their 'dark opprobrious den,'
Is all too rough for thee to tread.
Softly as morning vapours glide

Through Mosedale-cove from Carrock's side,
Should move the tenor of his song

Who means to charity no wrong;
Whose offering gladly would accord
With this day's work in thought and word.

Heaven prosper it! may peace and love,
And hope, and consolation fall,
Through its meek influence from above,
And penetrate the hearts of all;
All who, around the hallowed fane,
Shall sojourn in this fair domain;
Grateful to thee, while service pure,
And ancient ordinance, shall endure,
For opportunity bestowed

To kneel together, and adore their God!

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHEN in the antique age of bow and spear
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,
Came ministers of peace, intent to rear
The mother church in yon sequestered vale;

Then, to her patron saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,
Till from his couch the wished-for sun uprose.

He rose, and straight-as by divine command,
They who had waited for that sign to trace
Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand,
To the high altar its determined place;

Mindful of him who in the Orient born

There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind.

So taught their creed ;-nor failed the eastern sky,
Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse

The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die
Long as the sun his gladsome course renews.

For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,
Our Christian altar faithful to the east,
Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;
That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the dayspring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;

OR THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.

“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 7" The falconer to the lady said;

And she made answer, 66 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 Wharfe 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 Wharfe,

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 deep unspeaking sorrow:
Wharfe 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 Wharfe 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 Wharfe
A stately priory!"

The stately priory was reared;
And Wharfe, as he moved along,

To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at evensong.

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!

A FACT AND AN IMAGINATION;

OR CANUTE AND ALFRED.

THE Danish conqueror, on his royal chair,
Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty,
To aid a covert purpose, cried—“Oh, ye
Approaching waters of the deep, that share
With this green isle my fortunes, come not where
Your master's throne is set!"-Absurd decree !
A mandate uttered to the foaming sea

Is to its motion less than wanton air.

Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne,
Said to his servile courtiers, "Poor the reach,
The undisguised extent, of mortal sway!
He only is a king, and he alone

Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach)
Whose everlasting law, sea, earth, and heaven obey."
This just reproof the prosperous Dane

Drew, from the influx of the main,

For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain
At oriental flattery;

And Canute (truth more worthy to be known)
From that time forth did for his brows disown

The ostentatious symbol of a crown;

Esteeming earthly royalty

Comtemptible and vain.

Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, Her darling Alfred, might have spoken; To cheer the remnant of his host

When he was driven from coast to coast,

Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken:

"My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent ;