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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.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled with a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless Corsc !
Now is there stillness in the Vale,
And long unspeaking sorrow :—
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.
