[An appendage to _The White Doe_. My friend, Mr. Rogers, has also written on the subject.[B] The story is preserved in Dr. Whitaker's _History of Craven_--a topographical writer of first-rate merit in all that concerns the past; but such was his aversion from the modern spirit, as shown in the spread of manufactories in those districts of which he treats, that his readers are left entirely ignorant both of the progress of these arts and their real bearing upon the comfort, virtues, and happiness of the inhabitants. While wandering on foot through the fertile valleys and over the moorlands of the Apennine that divide Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be delighted with observing the number of substantial cottages that had sprung up on every side, each having its little plot of fertile ground won from the surrounding waste. A bright and warm fire, if needed, was always to be found in these dwellings. The father was at his loom; the children looked healthy and happy. Is it not to be feared that the increase of mechanic power had done away with many of these blessings, and substituted many ills? Alas! if these evils grow, how are they to be checked, and where is the remedy to be found? Political economy will not supply it; that is certain; we must look to something deeper, purer, and higher.--I. F.] Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED. "=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?=" 5 The Falconer to the Lady said; And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!" For she knew that her Son was dead. She knew it by[1] the Falconer's words, And from the look of the Falconer's eye; 10 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, 15 To let slip upon buck or doe. The pair[2] have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. 20 The[3] 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, 25 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 29 That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?-- But the greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap.