And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart 65
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend![D]
There were few variations in the text of this poem, from 1815 to 1850; but I have found, in a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to her friend Miss Jane Pollard, the mother of Lady Monteagle—who kindly sent it to me—an earlier version, which differs considerably from the form in which it was first published in 1815. The letter is dated October 18th, 1807, and the poem is as follows:—
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
The Lady answer'd, "endless sorrow."
Her words are plain; but the Falconer's words
Are a path that is dark to travel thorough.
These words I bring from the Banks of Wharf,
Dark words to front an ancient tale:
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail?
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
The Falconer to the Lady said,
And she made answer as ye have heard,
For she knew that her Son was dead.
She knew it from the Falconer's words
And from the look of the Falconer's eye,
And from the love that was in her heart
For her youthful Romelli.
Young Romelli to the Woods is gone,
And who doth on his steps attend?
He hath a greyhound in a leash,
A chosen forest Friend.
And they have reach'd that famous Chasm
Where he who dares may stride
Across the River Wharf, pent in
With rocks on either side.
And that striding place is call'd The Strid,
A name which it took of yore;
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.