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—Young Romilly through Barden Woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a Greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.
And the Pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
This 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,
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 checked him in his leap.
