. Poems . ou didst not shudder when the sword * In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the val-leys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterwards establishedthere by his uncle, David King of Scotland. He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy ofEgremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when aPriory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be asnear as possible to the place where the accident happened. Thatplace is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mothersanswer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often rejjcntcdi
. Poems . ou didst not shudder when the sword * In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the val-leys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterwards establishedthere by his uncle, David King of Scotland. He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy ofEgremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when aPriory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be asnear as possible to the place where the accident happened. Thatplace is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mothersanswer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often rejjcntcdin Wliarfedale.— See WiutAKEKs Hist, of Craven. 186 Here on the young its fury spent, The helpless and the innocent. Sit now and answer groan for groan. The child before thee is thy own. And she who wildly wanders there, The mother in her long despair. Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the VVharfe were weeping; Of those who would not be consoled When red with blood the river 187 WRITTEN IN A SICK There, in that bed so closely curtained round,Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay,A father sleeps ! Oh hushed be every sound!Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dieamsLong oer his smoothed and settled pillow rise;Nor fly, till morning thro the shutter stieams,And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies. iSS TO Ah ! little thought she, when, with Mild delight,By many a torrents shining track she flew,When mountain-glens and caverns full of nightOer her young mind divine enchantment threw, That in her veins a secret horror slept,That her light footsteps should be heard no more,That she should die—nor watched, alas, nor weptBy thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore. Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drewThe kindred forms her closing eye didst thou stand—there, with the smile she knew;She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. And now to thee she comes; s
Size: 1965px × 1272px
Photo credit: © Reading Room 2020 / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookauthorrogerssamue, bookcentury1800, bookidpoemssam00rogerich
