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Page 14
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 Romill�.
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 Romill�.
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.
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