And hither is young Romilly 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 checked him in his leap.

The boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless corse.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER.

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long unspeaking sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.

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.

Long, long in darkness did she sit,

And her first words were, "Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To Matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at Even-song.

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
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend!

WORDSWORTH.

THE JOYS OF HOME.

SWEET are the joys of home,

And pure as sweet; for they,
Like dews of morn and evening, come
To wake and close the day.

The world hath its delights,
And its delusions too;

But home to calmer bliss invites,
More tranquil and more true.

The mountain flood is strong,
But fearful in its pride;

While gently rolls the stream along

The peaceful valley's side.

Life's charities, like light,

Spread smilingly afar;

But stars approach'd become more bright,

And home is life's own star.

The pilgrim's step in vain

Seeks Eden's sacred ground!

But in home's holy joys, again
An Eden may be found.

A glance of heaven to see,
To none on earth is given;

And yet a happy family

Is but an earlier heaven.

JOHN BOWRING.

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