And thither is young Romelli come;
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
That the River was strong, and the Rocks were steep?
But the greyhound in the Leash hung back
And check'd him in his leap.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled with a merciless force;
For never more was young Romelli seen,
Till he was a lifeless corse.
Now is there stillness in the vale
And long unspeaking sorrow,
Wharf has buried fonder hopes
Than e'er were drown'd in Yarrow.[E]
If for a Lover the Lady wept
A comfort she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death;
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the Wedding-day
That was to be to-morrow,[F]
Her hope was a farther-looking hope
And hers is a Mother's sorrow.
Oh was he not a comely tree?
And proudly did his branches wave;
And the Root of this delightful Tree
Is in her Husband's grave.
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first word was, "Let there be
At Bolton, in the Fields of Wharf
A stately Priory."
And the stately Priory was rear'd,
And Wharf as he moved along,
To Matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at Even-song.
And the Lady pray'd in heaviness
That wish'd not for relief;
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.