The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by[4] a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen 35 Till he rose a lifeless corse. Now there is[5] stillness in the vale, And long,[6] unspeaking, sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow. 40 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. She weeps not for the wedding-day 45 Which was to be to-morrow: Her hope was a further-looking hope, And hers is a mother's sorrow. He was a tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave; 50 And the root of this delightful tree Was in her husband's grave! Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, "Let there be In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 55 A stately Priory!" The stately Priory was reared;[C] And Wharf, as he moved along, To matins joined a mournful voice, Nor failed at even-song. 60 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 65 That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our friend![D] There were few variations in the text of this poem, from 1815 to 1850; but I have found, in a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to her friend Miss Jane Pollard, the mother of Lady Monteagle--who kindly sent it to me--an earlier version, which differs considerably from the form in which it was first published in 1815. The letter is dated October 18th, 1807, and the poem is as follows:-- "_What is good for a bootless bene?_" The Lady answer'd, "_endless sorrow_." _Her_ words are plain; but the Falconer's words Are a path that is dark to travel thorough. These words I bring from the Banks of Wharf, Dark words to front an ancient 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 as ye have heard, For she knew that her Son was dead. She knew it from the Falconer's words And from the look of the Falconer's eye, And from the love that was in her heart For her youthful Romelli. Young Romelli to the Woods is gone, And who doth on his steps attend? He hath a greyhound in a leash, A chosen forest Friend. And they have reach'd that famous Chasm Where he who dares may stride Across the River Wharf, pent in With rocks on either side.