When near the cabin in the wood, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, His voice was heard no more! As through the mist he winged his way, That narrow place of noise and strife There now the matin-bell is rung; The "Miserere!" duly sung; * In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterwards established there by his uncle, David, King of Scotland. He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a Priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid: and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale.-See WHITAKER'S Hist. of Craven. groan. Here on the young its fury spent, Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.* TREAD lightly here, for here, 'tis said, * Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. ON... ASLEEP. SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile. Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs!— Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, She starts, she trembles, and she weeps Her fair hands folded on her breast. -And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest! Sleep on secure! Above controul, |