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 a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long, unspeaking sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.

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
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;
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,
A stately priory!"

The stately priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.

And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.

O, 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!

William Wordsworth.

Boston.

ST. BOTOLPH'S TOWN.

BOSTON in Lincolnshire takes its name from its founder, St. Botolph, who flourished about the middle of the seventh century. At present the chief glory of the town is its church-tower, built after the model of that of Antwerp Cathedral, and renowned as one of the most beautiful in England.

T. Botolph's Town! Hither across the plains

ST

And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, There came a Saxon monk, and founded here

A priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,

So that thereof no vestige now remains;
Only a name, that spoken loud and clear,
And echoed in another hemisphere,

Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St. Botolph's Town! Far over leagues of land
And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,
And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand
A landmark, and a symbol of the power
That lies concentred in a single word.

Anonymous.

BOSTON IN LINCOLNSHIRE.

T is not for what you are or do,

IT

Or for any treasures rare,

That I turn my steps and heart to you,
But for the name you bear.

Ancestral name! that must cross the sea
Its farthest fame to know,
And to other soil transplanted be,

That its proudest branch might grow.

It is not that your minster-pile
Looks proudly toward the deep, —
The loftiest tower of Britain's isle
In valley or on steep,

But that beneath that lordly tower
A simple chapel stands,

Which binds with an atoning power
Two great and kindred lands.

In days long gone it caught the sound
Of Cotton's earnest tongue;
Now freshly is his memory found
His wonted haunts among.

Prelatic England drove him forth
Beyond the Western main;
Free-thoughted England owns his worth,
And bids him back again.

Back in the name the chapel wears,
Proscribed and then forgot.

That tablet's face more than repairs
The honors of the spot.

For here from afar the inscription came By our statesman-scholar sent, Reading, "Lest longer such a name Should stay in banishment."

The brazen plate, so simply grand,
Is framed in Norman stone;
The characters from English land,
The writer from our own.

Stand of forgotten feuds a sign,
And the world's brighter age!
Read on, long hence, thy filial line,
Thou quaintly graven page.

Say, that henceforth the soul's full thought
Need not in silence die;

Nor one true man, all conscience-fraught,
Must suffer or must fly.

Say, that two sovereign powers unite,
Each on her ocean shore,

To keep Faith, Friendship, Freedom bright,
From this time evermore.

Hail and farewell, St. Butolph's fane,
Seen in my thoughts so long!
They failed to span your broad domain,
And did your grandeur wrong.

Hail and farewell, St. Butolph's town!
How dear that parent name!
And no ill-favored brow I crown

With that auspicious claim.

Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham.

Bottreau.

THE SILENT TOWER OF BOTTREAU.

INTADGEL bells ring o'er the tide,

TIN

The boy leans on his vessel side;

He hears that sound, and dreams of home
Soothe the wild orphan of the foam.