And, ranging 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, and grateful, melancholy : Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, But by tender fancies brightened.
When the bells of Rylstone played 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.
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 she sate Forlorn, but not disconsolate : 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 The 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 sing, 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 ruined 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 blessèd Pilgrim trod,
By sorrow lifted towards 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!"
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my tale;
And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail?
"What is good for a bootless bene?”
The falconer to the lady said;
And she made answer, "Endless sorrow!"
For she knew that her son was dead.
She knew it by 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.
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.
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 by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless corse.
Now there is stillness in the vale, And deep unspeaking sorrow : Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow.
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 hers is a mother's sorrow.
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