THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

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By John Bird.

William de Meschines and Cecily de Romille his wife, founders of Embsay Priory, (says Dr. Whitaker,) were now dead, and had left a daughter, Alice, who adopted her mother's name, Romille, and was married to William Fitz-Duncan, nephew of David, king of Scotland. They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond,[58] who, surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.

In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden, in Craven, four miles up the river, the Wharfe suddenly contracts itself to a rocky channel, little more than four feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure with a rapidity proportioned to its confinement. The place was then, as it is yet, 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 was the fate of young Romille, who inconsiderately bounded over the chasm, with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back and drew his unfortunate master into the torrent. The misfortune is said to have occasioned the translation of the priory from Embsay to Bolton, which was the nearest eligible site to the place where it happened.

This priory existed upwards of four hundred years, when it was surrendered by Richard Moon, the prior, and fourteen of his brethren, on the 26th Jan. 1540. On the 3rd April, 1542, the site was granted to Henry Clifford, first earl of Cumberland, but nineteen days before his death, for the sum of 2,490l; from him it has descended to the present owner, the duke of Devonshire.

"Rise up, rise up, my noble boy,
The morn is fresh and fair;
The laughing rays look out with joy,
Rich balm is on the air:—
Rise up, rise up, my gallant son,
Nor let there story be,
That hawk was flown, or heron won,
Unseen, unheard, of thee!"
The boy rose up, that noble boy,
He knelt down at her knee;—
And, oh, it was a sight of joy,
That lady's joy to see!
She parted back his golden hair,
She kist his bonny brow—
"I would each mother's heart might share
Thy mother's gladness now!
"For thou art fair, and more than fair,
Gentle in word and thought;—
Yet, oh, my son, brave boy, beware
Of dangers love hath taught!"
"Trust me," he cried, and smiling went
To range the valleys green;
And many as fair and fond intent
As dark an end hath seen.
Bright on his path the dewdrops lay—
Rich gems of nature's court;
The foot that chased their light away,
Seem'd but to fall in sport—
Seem'd but the joy of him whose bound
Forgot its speed, to hear
The warbling lark, or win the hound
From his own wild career.
And never shone fair Bolton's vale
So beautiful as now,
And ne'er beneath the sportive gale
Did Wharfe so calmly flow.
"Hark! hark! on Barden-fell the horn
Of the blithe hunter rings,
Buscar! they rouse a stag this morn;
Oh, sweet the bugle sings."
Away, away, they speed with joy,
The frolic hound and he,
Proud Egremond's far boasted boy,
That gallant chase to see.
Why pause they in their course?—'tis where
The stream impetuous flows
Through the dark rocks, that, meeting there,
Its onward path oppose!
Yet, oh, the gush, the fearful gush,
Of the wild water's strife!
On that loud eddying flood to rush,
Were but to sport with life!
Yet one true gaze—one gallant bound—
And the dread gulf is past!
"Be firm and fleet, my faithful hound!"
That spring—it was his last!
Held in a leash, that craven hound,
Faltered in fear, and gave
His master to the gulf profound—
A swift and sudden grave!
One flash of light—one look that tells
Of late and vain remorse—
And a dark mass the current swells
Far on its rapid course!
Still beautiful is Bolton's vale,
Still Wharfe's bright waters there
Trace through long years the mournful tale,
That bids rash youth beware.
There through its chasm the fatal flood
Still pours the ceaseless wave,
Where the bright boy one moment stood,
And sprang—to find a grave!
Fair Bolton's Abbey yet records
The lady's sorrowing part,
And silent walls, e'en more than words,
May wake the slumbering heart.
Ye, then, who mourn her gentle son,
Whelm'd in the fearful Strid,
Think on a mother's love, and shun
The paths her lips forbid!


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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