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Fell on him, with the sudden thought
Of her by whom the work was wrought;
"O wherefore was her count'nance bright
With love divine and gentle light?
She did in passiveness obey,

But her faith lean'd another way.
Ill tears she wept,-I saw them fall,
I overheard her as she spake
Sad words to that mute animal,
The white doe, in the hawthorn brake;
She steep'd, but not for Jesu's sake,
This cross in tears: by her, and one
Unworthier far, we are undone-
Her brother was it, who assail'd
Her tender spirit, and prevail'd.
Her other parent, too, whose head
In the cold grave hath long been laid,
From reason's earliest dawn beguiled
The docile, unsuspecting child:
Far back-far back my mind must go
To reach the well-spring of this woe!"
While thus he brooded, music sweet
Was play'd to cheer them in retreat;
But Norton linger'd in the rear:
Thought follow'd thought-and ere the last
Of that unhappy train was pass'd,
Before him Francis did appear.

"Now when 'tis not your aim t' oppose,"
Said he, "in open field your foes;
Now that from this decisive day
Your multitude must melt away,
An unarm'd man may come, unblamed,
To ask a grace that was not claim'd
Long as your hopes were high; he now
May hither bring a fearless brow,
When his discountenance can do
No injury, may come to you.
Though in your cause no part I bear,
Your indignation I can share ;

Am grieved this backward march to see,
How careless and disorderly!

I scorn your chieftains-men who lead,
And yet want courage at their need;
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?
My father! I would help to find
A place of shelter, till the rage
Of cruel men do like the wind
Exhaust itself, and sink to rest;
Be brother now to brother join'd!
Admit me in the equipage
Of your misfortunes, that at least,
Whatever fate remains behind,

I may bear witness in my breast,
To your nobility of mind!"

"Thou enemy-my bane and blight!
Oh, bold to fight the coward's fight
Against all good!"-but why declare,
At length, the issue of this prayer?
Or how, from his depression raised,
The father on his son had gazed;
Suffice it that the son gave way,
Nor strove that passion to allay,
Nor did he turn aside to prove
His brothers' wisdom, or their love;
But calmly from the spot withdrew,
The like endeavours to renew,
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.

CANTO FOURTH.

FROM cloudless ether looking down,
The moon, this tranquil evening, sees
A camp, and a beleaguer'd town,
And castle like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;
And, southward far, with moors between,
Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green,
The bright moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequester'd Hall
A venerable image yields

Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
While from one pillar'd chimney breathes
The silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths.
The courts are hush'd; for timely sleep
The greyhounds to their kennel creep;
The peacock in the broad ash-tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright,
Walk'd round, affronting the daylight;
And higher still, above the bower

Where he is perch'd, from yon lone tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
With glittering finger points at nine.
Ah! who could think that sadness here
Had any sway-or pain-or fear?
A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day;
The garden pool's dark surface-stirr'd
By the night insects in their play-
Breaks into dimples small and bright;
A thousand, thousand rings of light
That shape themselves and disappear

Almost as soon as seen: and lo!
Not distant far, the milk-white doe:
The same fair creature which was nigh,
Feeding in tranquillity,

When Francis utter'd to the maid
His last words in the yew-tree shade:
The same fair creature, who hath found
Her way into forbidden ground;
Where now, within this spacious plot
For pleasure made, a goodly spot,
With lawns, and beds of flowers, and shades
Of trellis-work, in long arcades,

And cirque and crescent framed by wall
Of close-clipp'd foliage green and tall,
Converging walks, and fountains gay,
And terraces in trim array,-
Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
With pine and cedar spreading wide
Their darksome boughs on either side,
In open moonlight doth she lie;
Happy as others of her kind,

That, far from human neighbourhood,
Range-unrestricted as the wind-

Through park, or chase, or savage wood.

But where at this still hour is she-
The consecrated Emily?

Even while I speak, behold the maid
Emerging from the cedar shade
To open moonshine, where the doe
Beneath the cypress spire is laid,
Like a patch of April snow
Upon a bed of herbage green
Lingering, in a woody glade,
Or behind a rocky screen-
Lonely relic! which, if seen
By the shepherd, is pass'd by
With an inattentive eye.

Nor more regard doth she bestow

Upon the uncomplaining doe!

Yet the meek creature was not free,
Erewhile, from some perplexity:
For thrice hath she approach'd, this day,
The thought-bewilder'd Emily;
Endeavouring in her gentle way,
Some smile or look of love to gain,-
Encouragement to sport or play;
Attempts which by the unhappy maid
Have all been slighted or gainsaid.
O welcome to the viewless breeze!
"Tis fraught with acceptable feeling,
And instantaneous sympathies
Into the sufferer's bosom stealing.
Ere she hath reach'd yon rustic shed

Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread
Along the walls and overhead,

The fragrance of the breathing flowers
Revives a memory of those hours
When here, in this remote alcove
(While from the pendent woodbine came
Like odours, sweet as if the same),
A fondly anxious mother strove
To teach her salutary fears
And mysteries above her years.
Yes, she is soothed: an image faint-
And yet not faint a presence bright
Returns to her; 'tis that bless'd saint
Who with mild looks and language mild
Instructed here her darling child,
While yet a prattler on the knee,
To worship in simplicity

The invisible God, and take for guide
The faith reform'd and purified.

'Tis flown—the vision; and the sense

Of that beguiling influence !

"But oh! thou angel from above,

Thou spirit of maternal love,

That stood'st before my eyes, more clear
Than ghosts are fabled to appear,

Sent upon embassies of fear;

As thou thy presence hast to me
Vouchsafed-in radiant ministry
Descend on Francis !-through the air
Of this sad earth to him repair,
Speak to him with a voice, and say,
That he must cast despair away!

Then from within the embower'd retreat,

Where she had found a grateful seat,
Perturb'd she issues. She will go ;
Herself will follow to the war,

And clasp her father's knees; ah, no!
She meets the insuperable bar,
The injunction by her brother laid
His parting charge-but ill obey'd!
That interdicted all debate,

All prayer for this cause or for that;
All efforts that would turn aside

The headstrong current of their fate:
Her duty is to stand and wait;
In resignation to abide

The shock, and finally secure
O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.
She knows, she feels it, and is cheer'd;
At least her present pangs are check'd.
And now an ancient man appear'd,
Approaching her with grave respect.
Down the smooth walk which then she t

He paced along the silent sod,
And greeting her, thus gently spake:
"An old man's privilege I take;
Dark is the time-a woeful day!
Dear daughter of affliction, say
How can I serve you?-point the way."

"Rights have you, and may well be bold: You with my father have grown

old

In friendship: go-from him-from me-
Strive to avert this misery!

This would I beg; but on my mind
A passive stillness is enjoin'd.
If prudence offer help or aid,
On you is no restriction laid;
You not forbidden to recline
With hope upon the will divine."

"Hope," said the sufferer's zealous friend, "Must not forsake us till the end.

In Craven's wilds is many a den
To shelter persecuted men :
Far underground is many a cave

Where they might lie, as in the grave,
Until this storm had ceased to rave;
Or let them cross the river Tweed,

And be at once from peril freed!"

Ah, tempt me not !" she faintly sigh'd;
"I will not counsel nor exhort,-
With my condition satisfied;
But you, at least, may make report
Of what befalls: be this your task,
This may be done; 'tis all I ask !"

She spake, and from the lady's sight
The sire, unconscious of his age,
Departed promptly as a page
Bound on some errand of delight.
"The noble Francis, wise as brave,"

Thought he, ". I may have the skill to save:
With hopes in tenderness conceal'd,
Unarm'd he follow'd to the field.

Him will I seek the insurgent powers
Are now besieging Barnard's towers,-
Grant that the moon which shines this night
May guide them in a prudent flight!"

But quick the turns of chance and change,
And knowledge has a narrow range;
Whence idle fears, and needless pain,
And wishes blind, and efforts vain.
Their flight the fair moon may not see;
For, from mid-heaven, already she
Hath witness'd their captivity.
She saw the desperate assault

Upon that hostile castle made;

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