"Rise up, rise up, my noble boy, The morn is fresh and fair; The laughing rays look out with joy, Rich balm is on the air:-- Rise up, rise up, my gallant son, Nor let there story be, That hawk was flown, or heron won, Unseen, unheard, of thee!" The boy rose up, that noble boy, He knelt down at her knee;-- And, oh, it was a sight of joy, That lady's joy to see! She parted back his golden hair, She kist his bonny brow-- "I would each mother's heart might share Thy mother's gladness now! "For thou art fair, and more than fair, Gentle in word and thought;-- Yet, oh, my son, brave boy, beware Of dangers love hath taught!" "Trust me," he cried, and smiling went To range the valleys green; And many as fair and fond intent As dark an end hath seen. Bright on his path the dewdrops lay-- Rich gems of nature's court; The foot that chased their light away, Seem'd but to fall in sport-- Seem'd but the joy of him whose bound Forgot its speed, to hear The warbling lark, or win the hound From his own wild career. And never shone fair Bolton's vale So beautiful as now, And ne'er beneath the sportive gale Did Wharfe so calmly flow. "Hark! hark! on Barden-fell the horn Of the blithe hunter rings, Buscar! they rouse a stag this morn; Oh, sweet the bugle sings." Away, away, they speed with joy, The frolic hound and he, Proud Egremond's far boasted boy, That gallant chase to see. Why pause they in their course?--'tis where The stream impetuous flows Through the dark rocks, that, meeting there, Its onward path oppose! Yet, oh, the gush, the fearful gush, Of the wild water's strife! On that loud eddying flood to rush, Were but to sport with life! Yet one true gaze--one gallant bound-- And the dread gulf is past! "Be firm and fleet, my faithful hound!" That spring--it was his last! Held in a leash, that craven hound, Faltered in fear, and gave His master to the gulf profound-- A swift and sudden grave! One flash of light--one look that tells Of late and vain remorse-- And a dark mass the current swells Far on its rapid course! Still beautiful is Bolton's vale, Still Wharfe's bright waters there Trace through long years the mournful tale, That bids rash youth beware. There through its chasm the fatal flood Still pours the ceaseless wave, Where the bright boy one moment stood, And sprang--to find a grave! Fair Bolton's Abbey yet records The lady's sorrowing part, And silent walls, e'en more than words, May wake the slumbering heart. Ye, then, who mourn her gentle son, Whelm'd in the fearful Strid, Think on a mother's love, and shun The paths her lips forbid! FOOTNOTE: