When near the cabin in the wood, In tartan clad and forest-green, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, * The Boy of Egremond was seen. 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; And holy men in cowl and hood 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. 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. BB Here on the young its fury spent, When red with blood the river rolled. WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. 1793. THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round, Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! 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. ΤΟ AH! little thought she, when, with wild delight, That in her veins a secret horror slept, That her light footsteps should be heard no more, Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew There didst thou stand-there, with the smile she knew; 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, |