The[3] striding-place is called The Strid,
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come, 25
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across The Strid?
He sprang in glee,—for what cared he 29
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?—
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by[4] a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen 35
Till he rose a lifeless corse.
Now there is[5] stillness in the vale,
And long,[6] unspeaking, sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow. 40
If for a lover the Lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death:—
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day 45
Which was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a further-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.
He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave; 50
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 55
A stately Priory!"
The stately Priory was reared;[C]
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song. 60