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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 filed ?”
At Embsay rung the matin-bell,
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,
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.