THE FORCE OF PRAYER;[A]
Reading edition
THE FORCE OF PRAYER;[A]
Or, The Founding of Bolton Priory
A Tradition
Composed 1807.—Published 1815
[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. 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. And that striding place is call'd The Strid, A name which it took of yore; A thousand years hath it borne that name, And shall a thousand more. And thither is young Romelli come; 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 That the River was strong, and the Rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the Leash hung back And check'd him in his leap. The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled with a merciless force; For never more was young Romelli seen, Till he was a lifeless corse. Now is there stillness in the vale And long unspeaking sorrow, Wharf has buried fonder hopes Than e'er were drown'd in Yarrow.[E] If for a Lover the Lady wept A comfort she might borrow From death, and from the passion of death; Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. She weeps not for the Wedding-day That was to be to-morrow,[F] Her hope was a farther-looking hope And hers is a Mother's sorrow. Oh was he not a comely tree? And proudly did his branches wave; And the Root of this delightful Tree Is in her Husband's grave. Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first word was, "Let there be At Bolton, in the Fields of Wharf A stately Priory." And the stately Priory was rear'd, And Wharf as he moved along, To Matins joined a mournful voice, Nor fail'd at Even-song. And the Lady pray'd in heaviness That wish'd not for relief; But slowly did her succour come, And a patience to her grief. Oh! there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask Of him to be our Friend.
The poem of Samuel Rogers, to which Wordsworth refers in the Fenwick note, is named The Boy of Egremond. It begins—
"Say, what remains when Hope is fled?" She answered, "endless weeping!"
In a letter to Wordsworth in 1815, Charles Lamb wrote thus of The Force of Prayer, "Young Romilly is divine; the reasons of his mother's grief being remediless. I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering above the other loves. Shakspeare had done something for the filial in Cordelia, and, by implication, for the fatherly too, in Lear's resentment; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal heart.... When I first opened upon the just mentioned poem, in a careless tone, I said to Mary, as if putting a riddle, 'What is good for a bootless bene?' To which, with infinite presence of mind (as the jest-book has it), she answered, 'A shoeless pea.' It was the first joke she ever made.... I never felt deeply in my life if that poem did not make me feel, both lately and when I read it in MS." (The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 288.)—Ed.
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