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When near the cabin in the wood,
his song, a song of yore;
narrow place of noise and strife
There now the matin-bell is rung;
Thou didst not shudder when the sword * 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.
was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a
was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be 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,
groan. The child before thee is thy own. And she who wildly wanders there, The mother in her long despair, Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping ; Of those who would not be consoled When red with blood the river rolled.
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
There, in that bed so closely curtained round,
He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smoothed and settled pillow rise ; Nor fly, till morning thro’ the shutter streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.
Ah! little thought she, when, with wild delight,
That in her veins a secret horror slept,
And now to thee she comes; still, still the same
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
* On the death of her sister.
On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
As on she moves with hesitating grace,