DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61904#0020
8
BOLTON PRIORY.
our way up that moft enchanting valley, the charms of which
have for years drawn thoufands of vifitors, and fince the day
of railroads hundreds of thoufands. Through woodland (hades,
through wildernefles of rock and heather, and ferns and mofles,
and ever and anon coming to a fine view of the dark rapid
ftream below us, or the airy hills around, we made our way to
the famous Strid.
The reader is familiar with the ftory of the young lord of
Egremont, who ranging the woods of Bolton, with his grey-
hounds and huntfmen, and coming to the narrow paflage where
the river pent up rages through in fury, leaped, but having a
greyhound in a leafh, and fhe a puppy at her heels, the dog
hung back, and he was plucked backward, fell in and perifhed.
Both Rogers and Wordfworth have celebrated this legend :—
The pair hath reached that fearful chafm —
How tempting to beftride !
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either fide.
This ftriding-place is called the Strid —
A name it took of yore;
A thoufand years it hath borne that name,
And fhall a thoufand more.
And hither is young Romilly come ;
And what may now forbid,
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound acrofs the Strid.
He fprung in glee, for what cared he
That the river was ftrong and the rocks were fteep ?
But the greyhound in the lealh hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
The boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And ftrangled by a mercilefs force ;
For never more was young Romilly feen,
Till he rofe a lifelefs corfe.
The Force of Prayer.—Wordsworth.
BOLTON PRIORY.
our way up that moft enchanting valley, the charms of which
have for years drawn thoufands of vifitors, and fince the day
of railroads hundreds of thoufands. Through woodland (hades,
through wildernefles of rock and heather, and ferns and mofles,
and ever and anon coming to a fine view of the dark rapid
ftream below us, or the airy hills around, we made our way to
the famous Strid.
The reader is familiar with the ftory of the young lord of
Egremont, who ranging the woods of Bolton, with his grey-
hounds and huntfmen, and coming to the narrow paflage where
the river pent up rages through in fury, leaped, but having a
greyhound in a leafh, and fhe a puppy at her heels, the dog
hung back, and he was plucked backward, fell in and perifhed.
Both Rogers and Wordfworth have celebrated this legend :—
The pair hath reached that fearful chafm —
How tempting to beftride !
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either fide.
This ftriding-place is called the Strid —
A name it took of yore;
A thoufand years it hath borne that name,
And fhall a thoufand more.
And hither is young Romilly come ;
And what may now forbid,
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound acrofs the Strid.
He fprung in glee, for what cared he
That the river was ftrong and the rocks were fteep ?
But the greyhound in the lealh hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
The boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And ftrangled by a mercilefs force ;
For never more was young Romilly feen,
Till he rofe a lifelefs corfe.
The Force of Prayer.—Wordsworth.