And turn'd away from thee, my Son!
And left-but be the rest unsaid,
The name untouch'd, the tear unshed.
My wish is known, and I have done:
Now promise, grant this one request,
This dying prayer, and be thou blest!'
<< Then Francis answer'd fervently, 'If God so will, the same shall be.'
« Immediately, this solemn word
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard,
And Officers appear'd in state
To lead the Prisoners to their fate.
They rose, oh! wherefore should I fear
To tell, or, Lady, you to hear?
They rose-embraces none were given-
They stood like trees when earth and heaven
Are calm; they knew each other's worth,
And reverently the Band went forth:
They met, when they had reach'd the door,
The Banner which a Soldier bore,
One marshall'd thus with base intent
That he in scorn might go before,
And, holding up this monument,
Conduct them to their punishment;
So cruel Sussex, unrestrain'd
By human feeling, had ordain'd.
The unhappy Banner Francis saw,
And, with a look of calm command
Inspiring universal awe,
He took it from the Soldier's hand;
And all the People that were round
Confirm'd the deed in peace profound.
-High transport did the Father shed
Upon his Son-and they were led,
Led on, and yielded up their breath,
Together died, a happy death!
But Francis, soon as he had braved
This insult, and the Banner saved,
That moment, from among the tide
Of the spectators occupied
In admiration or dismay,
Bore unobserved his Charge away.>>
These things, which thus had in the sight And hearing pass'd of Him who stood With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood,
He told; and oftentimes with voice
power to comfort or rejoice;
For deepest sorrows that aspire,
Go high, no transport ever higher.
Yet, yet in this affliction,» said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
Yet, Lady! Heaven is good-the night
Shows yet a Star which is most bright;
Your Brother lives-he lives-is come
Perhaps already to his home;
Then let us leave this dreary place.»>
She yielded, and with gentle pace,
Though without one uplifted look,
To Rylstone-hall her way she took.-
WHY comes not Francis?-Joyful cheer
In that parental gratulation,
And glow of righteous indignation,
Went with him from the doleful City:-
He fled-yet in his flight could hear
The death-sound of the Minster-bell;
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!
To Ambrose that! and then a knell
For him, the sweet half-open'd Flower!
For all-all dying in one hour!
-Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
Should bear him to his Sister dear
With motion fleet as winged Dove;
Yea, like a heavenly Messenger,
An Angel-guest, should he appear.
Why comes he not?-for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past;
The Banner-staff was in his hand,
The Imagery conceal'd from sight,
And cross the expanse, in open flight,
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Uncheck'd he hurries on ;-nor heeds
The sorrow of the Villages;
Spread by triumphant cruelties
Of vengeful military force,
And punishment without remorse.
He mark'd not, heard not as he fled;
All but the suffering heart was dead
For him, abandon'd to blank awe,
To vacancy, and horror strong;
And the first object which he saw,
With conscious sight, as he swept along,-
It was the banner in his hand!
He felt, and made a sudden stand.
He look'd about like one betray'd:
What hath he done? what promise made?
Oh weak, weak moment! to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend,
And he the Bearer?-Can he go
Carrying this instrument of woe,
And find, find any where, a right
To excuse him in his Country's sight?
No, will not all Men deem the change
A downward course, perverse and strange?
Here is it, but how, when? must she,
The unoffending Emily,
Again this piteous object see?
Such conflict long did he maintain
Within himself, and found no rest;
Calm liberty he could not gain;
And yet the service was unblest.
His own life into danger brought
By this sad burden-even that thought,
Exciting self-suspicion strong,
Sway'd the brave man to his wrong.
And how, unless it were the sense
Of all-disposing Providence,
Its will intelligibly shown,
Finds he the banner in his hand,
Without a thought to such intent,
Or conscious effort of his own;
And no obstruction to prevent
His Father's wish, and last command!
And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh;
Remembering his own prophecy
Of utter desolation, made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sigh'd, 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 reach'd 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.
-T is Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand
Of Death had drunk their punishment,
Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
How Francis had the Banner claim'd,
And with that charge had disappear'd;
By all the Standers-by revered.
His whole bold carriage (which had quell'd
Thus far the Opposer, and repell'd
All censure, enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven
Against that overcoming light)
Was then review'd, and prompt word given,
That to what place soever fled
He should be seized, alive or dead.
The troop of horse have gained the height
Where Francis stood in open sight.
They hem him round-«Behold the proof,
Behold the Ensign in his hand!
He did not arm, he walked aloof!
For why?-to save his Father's Land ;-
Worst Traitor of them all is he,
A Traitor dark and cowardly !>>-
<< I am no Traitor,» Francis said,
Though this unhappy freight I bear;
It weakens me, my heart hath bled
Till it is weak-but you, beware,
Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,
Whose self-reproaches are too strong!»
At this he from the beaten road
Retreated tow'rds a brake of thorn,
Which like a place of 'vantage shewed;
And there stood bravely, though forlorn.
In self-defence with warlike brow
He stood,-nor weaponless was now;
He from a Soldier's hand had snatched
A spear, and with his eyes he watched
Their motions, turning round and round:-
His weaker hand the Banner held;
And straight, by savage zeal impelled,
Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he,
Not without harsh indignity,
Would seize the same:-instinctively-
To smite the Offender-with his lance
Did Francis from the brake advance;
But, from behind, a treacherous wound
Unfeeling, brought him to the ground,
A mortal stroke:-oh, grief to tell!
Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell:
There did he lie of breath forsaken;
The Banner from his grasp was taken,
And borne exultingly away;
And the Body was left on the ground where it lay.
Two days, as many nights he slept
Alone, unnoticed, and unwept;
For at that time distress and fear
Possessed the Country far and near;
The third day, One, who chanced to pass,
Beheld him stretched upon the grass.
A gentle Forester was he,
And of the Norton Tenantry;
And he had heard that by a Train
Of Horsemen Francis had been slain.
Much was he troubled-for the Man
Hath recognized his pallid face;
And to the nearest Huts he ran,
And called the People to the place.
-How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
Such was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there
Should be, this sight she cannot bear!
Such thought the Forester expressed;
And all were swayed, and deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent
And join himself to their intent,
Then, they, for Christian pity's sake,
In holy ground a grave would make;
That straightway buried he should be
In the Church-yard of the Priory.
Apart, some little space, was made The grave where Francis must be laid. In no confusion or neglect
This did they, but in pure respect
That he was born of gentle Blood;
And that there was no neighbourhood
Of kindred for him in that ground:
So to the Church-yard they are bound,
Bearing the Body on a bier
In decency and humble cheer;
And psalms are sung with holy sound.
But Emily hath raised her head,
And is again disquieted;
She must behold!-so many gone,
Where is the solitary One?
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,-
To seek her Brother forth she went,
And tremblingly her course she bent
Tow'rd Bolton's ruined Priory.
She comes, and in the Vale hath heard
The Funeral dirge;-she sees the knot
Of people, sees them in one spot-
And darting like a wounded Bird
She reached the grave, and with her breast
Upon the ground received the rest,-
The consummation, the whole ruth
And sorrow of this final truth!
THOU Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the Harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory for this Maiden's sake,
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled
To hide her poor afflicted head?
What mighty forest in its gloom
Enfolds her?-is a rifted tomb
Within the wilderness her seat?
Some island which the wild waves heat,
Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?
Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds
Its perilous front in mists and clouds?
High-climbing rock-low sunless dale-
Sea-desert-what do these avail?
Oh take her anguish and her fears
Into a deep recess of years!
T is done;-despoil and desolation (12)
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;
The walks and pools neglect hath sown
With weeds, the bowers are overthrown,
Or have given way to slow mutation,
While, in their ancient habitation
The Norton name hath been unknown.
The lordly Mansion of its pride
Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide
Through park and field, a perishing
That mocks the gladness of the Spring!
And with this silent gloom agreeing
There is a joyless human Being,
Of aspect such as if the waste
Were under her dominion placed:
Upon a primrose bank, her throne
Of quietness, she sits alone;
There seated, may this Maid be seen,
Among the ruins of a wood,
Erewhile a covert bright and green,
And where full many a brave Tree stood;
That used to spread its boughs, and ring
With the sweet Birds' carolling.
Behold her, like a Virgin Queen,
Neglecting in imperial state
These outward images of fate,
And carrying inward a serene
And perfect sway, through many a thought
Of chance and change, that hath been brought To the subjection of a holy,
Though stern and rigorous, melancholy!
The like authority, with grace
Of awfulness, is in her face,
There hath she fixed it; yet it seems
To o'ershadow by no native right
That face, which cannot lose the gleams,
Lose utterly the tender gleams
Of gentleness and meek delight,
And loving-kindness ever bright:
Such is her sovereign mien;-her dress
(A vest, with woollen cincture tied,
A hood of mountain-wool undyed)
Is homely,-fashioned to express
A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness.
And she hath wandered, long and far, Beneath the light of sun and star; Hath roamed in trouble and in grief, Driven forward like a withered leaf, Yea like a Ship at random blown To distant places and unknown. But now she dares to seek a haven Among her native wilds of Craven; Hath seen again her Father's Roof, And put her fortitude to proof; The mighty sorrow hath been borne, And she is thoroughly forlorn: Her soul doth in itself stand fast, Sustained by memory of the past And strength of Reason; held above The infirmities of mortal love; Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, And awfully impenetrable.
And so-beneath a mouldered tree,
A self-surviving leafless Oak,
By unregarded age from stroke
Of ravage saved-sate Emily.
There did she rest, with head reclined,
Herself most like a stately Flower,
(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth Hath separated from its kind,
To live and die in a shady bower,
Single on the gladsome earth.
When, with a noise like distant thunder,
A troop of Deer came sweeping by;
And, suddenly, behold a wonder!
For, of that band of rushing Deer,
A single One in mid career
Hath stopped, and fixed its large full eye
Upon the Lady Emily,
A Doe most beautiful, clear-white,
A radiant Creature, silver-bright!
Thus checked, a little while it stayed; A little thoughtful pause it made; And then advanced with stealth-like pace, Drew softly near her-and more near, Stopped once again;-but, as no trace Was found of any thing to fear, Even to her feet the Creature came, And laid its head upon her knee, And looked into the Lady's face, A look of pure benignity, And fond unclouded memory; It is, thought Emily, the same,
The very Doe of other years!
The pleading look the Lady viewed,
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued,
She melted into tears
A flood of tears, that flowed apace
Upon the happy Creature's face.
Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair!
Beloved of heaven, heaven's choicest care,
This was for you a precious greeting,-
For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting.
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe
Can she depart? can she forego
The Lady, once her playful Peer,
And now her sainted Mistress dear?
And will not Emily receive
This lovely Chronicler of things
Long past, delights and sorrowings?
Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face,
And take this gift of Heaven with grace?
That day, the first of a re-union
Which was to teem with high communion,
That day of balmy April weather,
They tarried in the wood together.
And when, ere fall of evening-dew,
She from this sylvan haunt withdrew,
The White Doe tracked with faithful pace
The Lady to her Dwelling-place;
That nook where, on paternal ground,
A habitation she had found,
The Master of whose humble board
Once owned her Father for his Lord;
A Hut, by tufted Trees defended,
Where Rylstone Brook with Wharf is blended.
When Emily by morning light Went forth, the Doe was there in sight. She shrunk-with one frail shock of pain, Received and followed by a prayer, Did she behold-saw once again; Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;— But, wheresoever she looked round, All now was trouble-baunted ground. So doth the Sufferer deem it good Even once again this neighbourhood To leave.-Unwooed, yet unforbidden, The White Doe followed up the Vale, Up to another Cottage-hidden In the deep fork of Amerdale; (13) And there may Emily restore Herself, in spots unseen before. Why tell of mossy rock, or trec, By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, Haunts of a strengthening amity That calmed her, cheered, and fortified? For she hath ventured now to read
Of time, and place, and thought, and deed, Endless history that lies
In her silent Follower's eyes!
Who with a power like human Reason
Discerns the favourable season,
Skilled to approach or to retire,-
From looks conceiving her desire,
From look, deportment, voice, or mien,
That vary to the heart within.
If she too passionately wreathed
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed,
Walked quick or slowly, every mood
In its degree was understood;
Then well may their accord be true,
And kindly intercourse ensue.
-Oh! surely 't was a gentle rousing
When she by sudden glimpse espied
The White Doe on the mountain browzing,
Or in the meadow wandered wide!
How pleased, when down the Straggler sank
Beside her, on some sunny bank!
How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed,
They like a nested Pair reposed!
Fair Vision! when it crossed the Maid
Within some rocky cavern laid,
The dark cave's portal gliding by,
White as whitest cloud on high,
Floating through an azure sky.
-What now is left for pain or fear?
That Presence, dearer and more dear,
Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,
While they, side by side, were straying,
And the Shepherd's pipe was playing;
And with a deeper peace endued
The hour of moonlight solitude.
With her Companion, in such frame Of mind, to Rylstone back she came; And, wandering through the wasted groves, Received the memory of old Loves, Undisturbed and undistrest, Into a soul which now was blest With a soft spring-day of holy, Mild, delicious, melancholy : Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, But by tender fancies brightened.
When the Bells of Rylstone played (14)
Their Sabbath music-« God us ayde!»
That was the sound they seemed to speak;
Inscriptive legend, which I ween
May on those holy Bells be seen,
That legend and her Grandsire's name;
And oftentimes the Lady meek
Had in her Childhood read the same,
Words which she slighted at that day;
But now, when such sad change was wrought,
And of that lonely name she thought,
The Bells of Rylstone seemed to say,
While she sate listening in the shade,
With vocal music, «God us ayde;»
And all the Hills were glad to bear
Their part in this effectual prayer.
Nor lacked She Reason's firmest power;
But with the White Doe at her side
Up doth she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence looks round her far and wide;
Her fate there measures-all is stilled,-
The feeble hath subdued her heart;
Behold the prophecy fulfilled,
Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!
But here her Brother's words have failed;
Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
That she, of him and ail bereft,
Hath yet this faithful Partner left;
This single Creature that disproves
His words, remains for her, and loves.
If tears are shed, they do not fall
For loss of him, for one or all;
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep; A few tears down her cheek descend For this her last and living Friend.
Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot,
And bless for both this savage spot!
Which Emily doth sacred hold
For reasons dear and manifold-
Here hath she, here before her sight,
Close to the summit of this height,
The grassy rock-encircled Pound (15)
In which the Creature first was found.
So beautiful the spotless Thrall,
(A lovely Youngling white as foam,)
That it was brought to Rylstone-hall;
Her youngest Brother led it home,
The youngest, then a lusty Boy,
Brought home the prize-and with what joy!
But most to Bolton's sacred Pile,
On favouring nights, she loved to go:
There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
Attended by the soft-paced Doe;
Nor feared she in the still moonshine
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;
Nor on the lonely turf that showed
Where Francis slept in his last abode.
For that she came; there oft and long
She sate in meditation strong:
And, when she from the abyss returned
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;
Was happy that she lived to greet
Her mute Companion as it lay
In love and pity at her feet;
How happy in its turn to meet
That recognition! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance;
Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature
And prospects of the inferior Creature!
A mortal Song we frame, by dower Encouraged of celestial power; Power which the viewless Spirit shed By whom we were first visited;
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, When, left in solitude, erewhile
We stood before this rained Pile,
And, quitting unsubstantial dreams,
Sang in this Presence kindred themes;
Distress and desolation spread
Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,-
Dead-but to live again on Earth,
A second and yet nobler birth;
Dire overthrow, and yet how high
The re-ascent in sanctity!
From fair to fairer; day by day
A more divine and loftier way!
Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod,
By sorrow lifted tow'rds her God;
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed mortality.
. Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend A dear look to her lowly Friend,—
There stopped;-her thirst was satisfied
With what this innocent spring supplied-
Her sanction inwardly she bore,
And stood apart from human cares:
But to the world returned no more,
Although with no unwilling mind
Help did she give at need, and joined
The Wharfdale Peasants in their prayers.
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied
To earth, she was set free, and died.
Thy soul, exalted Emily,
Maid of the blasted family,
Rose to the God from whom it came!
-In Rylstone Church her mortal frame
Was buried by her Mother's side.
Most glorious sunset!—and a ray
Survives-the twilight of this day;
In that fair Creature whom the fields
Support, and whom the forest shields;
Who, having filled a holy place,
Partakes, in her degree, heaven's grace;
And bears a memory and a mind
Raised far above the law of kind;
Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
Which her dear Mistress once held dear:
Loves most what Emily loved most-
The enclosure of this Church-yard ground;
Here wanders like a gliding Ghost,
And every Sabbath here is found;
Comes with the People when the Bells
Are heard among the moorland dells,
Finds entrance through yon arch, where way
Lies open on the Sabbath-day;
Here walks amid the mournful waste
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced,
And floors encumbered with rich show
Of fret-work imagery laid low;
Paces softly, or makes halt,
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault,
By plate of monumental brass
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave;
But chiefly by that single grave,
That one sequestered hillock green,
The pensive Visitant is seen.
There doth the gentle Creature lie
With those adversities unmoved;
Calm Spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved!
And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile,
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile, that seems to say,
«Thou, thou art not a child of Time,
But Daughter of the Eternal Prime?»>
THE Poem of the White Doe of Rylstone is founded on a local tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled, «The Rising of the North.» The tradition is as follows: « About this time,» not long after
|