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She knew it from the Falconer’s words,
And from the look of the Falconer’s eye,
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.
—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.
