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If for a Lover the Lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death ;—
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the Wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And her’s is a Mother’s sorrow.
He was a Tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the Root of this delightful Tree
Was in her Husband’s grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, “Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory.”
