The founders of Embsay were now dead, and left a daughter, who adopted
the mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan.
They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, who
surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.
In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the river
suddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than four
feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidity
equal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, called
the Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility than
prudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destruction
which awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was the
fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasm
with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew his
unfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompanied
Romille and beheld his fate, returned to the Lady Aaliza, and with
despair in his countenance, enquired, "what is good for bootless
Bene," to which the mother, apprehending some great misfortune, had
befallen her son, instantly replied, "endless sorrow."
The language of this question is almost unintelligible at present. But
bootless bene, is unavailing prayer; and the meaning, though
imperfectly expressed, seems to have been, what remains when prayer
avails not?
--Vide. Whitaker's History of Craven
Lady! what is the fate of those
Whose hopes and joys are failing?
Who, brooding over ceaseless woes,
Finds prayer is unavailing?
The mother heard his maddening tone,
She marked his look of horror;
She thought upon her absent son,
And answered, "endless sorrow."
How fair that morning star arose!
And bright and cloudless was its ray;
Ah! who could think that evening's close,
Would mark a frantic mother's woes,
And see a father's hopes decay?
Inhuman Chief! a judgment stern
Hath stopped thee in thy mad career;
And thou, who hast made thousands mourn.
Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear,
And long, in helpless grief, deplore
Thy only child is now no more.
Long ere the lark his matin sung,
Clad in his hunting garb of green,
The brave, the noble, and the young,
The Boy of Egremont was seen!
Who in his fair form could not trace,
The youth was born of high degree;
He was the last of Duncan's race,
The only hope of Romillé.
In his bright eye the youthful fire
Was glowing with unwonted brightness;
Warm in friendship, fierce in ire,
Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness.
His mother marked his brilliant cheek,
And blessed him as he onward past;
Ah! did no boding feeling speak,
To tell that look would be her last.
He held the hound in silken band,
The merlin perched upon his hand,
And frolic, mirth and wayward glee
Glanced in the heart of Romillé.
And oft the huntsman by his side,
Would warn him from the fatal tide,
And whisper in his heedless ear,
To think upon his mother's tear,
Should aught of ill or harm befall
Her child, her hope, her life, her all;
And bade him, for more sakes than one,
The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.
He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.
And all his counsel to the air,
And laughed to see the old man's eye,
Fix'd in imploring agony.
Where the wild stream's eternal strife,
Wake the dark echoes into life,
Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes,
Lost in its everlasting foam;
And swift the channeled water rushes,
With ceaseless roar and endless storm;
And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high,
Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky;
And o'er the dim and shadowy deep,
Yawning, presents a deathful leap.
The boy has gained that desperate brink,
And not a moment will he think
Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears
That are entwined in his young years.
The old man stretched his arms in air,
And vainly warned him to forbear:
Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay,
And mark the dread abyss beneath;
Destruction wings thee on thy way,
And leads thee to an awful death.
He said no more, for on the air
Rose the deep murmuring of despair;
One shriek of agonizing woe
Broke on his ear, and all was o'er;
For midst the waves' eternal flow,
The boy had sank to rise no more.
When springing from the dizzy steep,
He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky,
The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
And starting back, he shunned the leap,
And by this fatal check he drew
Death on himself and master too.
But those wild waves of death and strife
Flowed deeply, wildly as before,
Though he was reft of light and life,
And sunk in death to rise no more.
And he was gone! his mother's smile
No more shall welcome his return.
Ah! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn!
And his stern sire; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low!
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye
Shall shed the sympathizing tear;
Hopeless and childless shalt thou die,
And none shall mourn above thy bier.
Thy race extinct; no more thy name
Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.
Thou art the last! with thee shall die
Thy proud descent and lineage high;
No more on Barden's hills shall swell
The mirth inspiring bugle note;
No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell,
Its well known sounds shall wildly float.
Other sounds shall steal along,
Other music swell the song;
The deep funeral wail of wo,
In solemn cadence, now shall spread
Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.
Why has the Lady left her home,
And quitted every earthly care,
And sought, in deep monastic gloom,
The holy balm that centres there?
Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook
On those deserted scenes to look,
Where she so oft had marked her child,
With all a mother's joy and smiled,
For not a shrub, or tree or flower,
But brought to mind some happy hour,
And called to life some vision fair.
When her young hope stood smiling there.
But he was gone! and what had she
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free,
Had left her when young Duncan died;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet,
And that forbade her to forget;
Forget! what spell can calm the soul?
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief,
We still hope for the morrow;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.
the mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan.
They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, who
surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.
In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the river
suddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than four
feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidity
equal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, called
the Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility than
prudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destruction
which awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was the
fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasm
with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew his
unfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompanied
Romille and beheld his fate, returned to the Lady Aaliza, and with
despair in his countenance, enquired, "what is good for bootless
Bene," to which the mother, apprehending some great misfortune, had
befallen her son, instantly replied, "endless sorrow."
The language of this question is almost unintelligible at present. But
bootless bene, is unavailing prayer; and the meaning, though
imperfectly expressed, seems to have been, what remains when prayer
avails not?
--Vide. Whitaker's History of Craven
Lady! what is the fate of those
Whose hopes and joys are failing?
Who, brooding over ceaseless woes,
Finds prayer is unavailing?
The mother heard his maddening tone,
She marked his look of horror;
She thought upon her absent son,
And answered, "endless sorrow."
How fair that morning star arose!
And bright and cloudless was its ray;
Ah! who could think that evening's close,
Would mark a frantic mother's woes,
And see a father's hopes decay?
Inhuman Chief! a judgment stern
Hath stopped thee in thy mad career;
And thou, who hast made thousands mourn.
Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear,
And long, in helpless grief, deplore
Thy only child is now no more.
Long ere the lark his matin sung,
Clad in his hunting garb of green,
The brave, the noble, and the young,
The Boy of Egremont was seen!
Who in his fair form could not trace,
The youth was born of high degree;
He was the last of Duncan's race,
The only hope of Romillé.
In his bright eye the youthful fire
Was glowing with unwonted brightness;
Warm in friendship, fierce in ire,
Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness.
His mother marked his brilliant cheek,
And blessed him as he onward past;
Ah! did no boding feeling speak,
To tell that look would be her last.
He held the hound in silken band,
The merlin perched upon his hand,
And frolic, mirth and wayward glee
Glanced in the heart of Romillé.
And oft the huntsman by his side,
Would warn him from the fatal tide,
And whisper in his heedless ear,
To think upon his mother's tear,
Should aught of ill or harm befall
Her child, her hope, her life, her all;
And bade him, for more sakes than one,
The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.
He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.
And all his counsel to the air,
And laughed to see the old man's eye,
Fix'd in imploring agony.
Where the wild stream's eternal strife,
Wake the dark echoes into life,
Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes,
Lost in its everlasting foam;
And swift the channeled water rushes,
With ceaseless roar and endless storm;
And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high,
Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky;
And o'er the dim and shadowy deep,
Yawning, presents a deathful leap.
The boy has gained that desperate brink,
And not a moment will he think
Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears
That are entwined in his young years.
The old man stretched his arms in air,
And vainly warned him to forbear:
Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay,
And mark the dread abyss beneath;
Destruction wings thee on thy way,
And leads thee to an awful death.
He said no more, for on the air
Rose the deep murmuring of despair;
One shriek of agonizing woe
Broke on his ear, and all was o'er;
For midst the waves' eternal flow,
The boy had sank to rise no more.
When springing from the dizzy steep,
He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky,
The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
And starting back, he shunned the leap,
And by this fatal check he drew
Death on himself and master too.
But those wild waves of death and strife
Flowed deeply, wildly as before,
Though he was reft of light and life,
And sunk in death to rise no more.
And he was gone! his mother's smile
No more shall welcome his return.
Ah! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn!
And his stern sire; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low!
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye
Shall shed the sympathizing tear;
Hopeless and childless shalt thou die,
And none shall mourn above thy bier.
Thy race extinct; no more thy name
Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.
Thou art the last! with thee shall die
Thy proud descent and lineage high;
No more on Barden's hills shall swell
The mirth inspiring bugle note;
No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell,
Its well known sounds shall wildly float.
Other sounds shall steal along,
Other music swell the song;
The deep funeral wail of wo,
In solemn cadence, now shall spread
Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.
Why has the Lady left her home,
And quitted every earthly care,
And sought, in deep monastic gloom,
The holy balm that centres there?
Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook
On those deserted scenes to look,
Where she so oft had marked her child,
With all a mother's joy and smiled,
For not a shrub, or tree or flower,
But brought to mind some happy hour,
And called to life some vision fair.
When her young hope stood smiling there.
But he was gone! and what had she
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free,
Had left her when young Duncan died;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet,
And that forbade her to forget;
Forget! what spell can calm the soul?
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief,
We still hope for the morrow;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.