The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right-- Of your fair household, father knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say, those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! ----W. Wordsworth. THE FORCE OF PRAYER or, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON'S PRIORY. (A Tradition.) |What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my 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, "Endless sorrow!" For she knew that her son was dead. She knew it by the falconer's words, And from the look of the falconer's eye; And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly. Young Romilly through Barden woods Is ranging high and low; And holds a greyhound in a leash, To let slip upon buck or doe. The pair have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in, With rocks on either side. This 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, 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