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He sighed, submitting to the power,
The might of that prophetic hour.
“No choice is left, the deed is mine—
Dead are they, dead !—and I will go,
And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,
Will lay the Relic on the shrine.”
So forward with a steady will
He went, and traversed plain and hill;
And up the vale of Wharf his way
Pursued;—and, on the second day,
He reached a summit whence his eyes
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
There Francis for a moment's space
Made halt—but hark! a noise behind
Of Horsemen at an eager pace!
He heard and with misgiving mind.
—’Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent ;
