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Or trembling, fluttering here below,
Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Far happier thou! 'twas thine to soar,
* Mrs. Sheridan's.
THE BOY OF EGREMOND.
Say what remains when Hope is fled ?”
At Embsay rung the matin-bell,
* 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.
Blithe was his song, a song, of yore ;
There now the matin-bell is rung; The “ Miserere !" duly sung ; And holy men in cowl and hood Are wandering up and down the wood. But what avail they ? Ruthless Lord, Thou didst not shudder when the sword Here on the young its fury spent, The helpless and the innocent. Sit now and answer, groan for 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,
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams
Ah! little thought she, when, with wild delight,
That in her veins a secret horror slept,
Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew
* On the death of her sister.