« PreviousContinue »
Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor?
ONCE more, Enchantress of the soul,
Say, in what distant star to dwell ?
Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Far happier thou! 'twas thine to soar,
* Mrs. Sheridan's.
Say, what remains when Hope is fled ?" She answered, “ Endless weeping!” For in the herdsman's eye she read Who in his shroud lay sleeping.
At Embsay rung the matin-bell, The stag was roused on Barden-fell; The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, And down the Wharfe a hern was flying;
When near the cabin in the wood,
There now the matin-bell is rung;
* 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.
Here on the young its fury spent,