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Rushed in; and while, O grief to tell!
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes
Unclosed the noble Francis lay
Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;
But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,
The wounds the broidered Banner showed,
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good!
Proudly the Horsemen bore away
The Standard; and where Francis lay
There was he left alone, unwept,
And for two days unnoticed slept.
For at that time bewildering fear
Possessed the country, far and near;
But, on the third day, passing by
One of the Norton Tenantry
Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man
Shrunk as he recognised the face,
And to the nearest homesteads ran
And called the people to the place.

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How desolate is Rylstone-hall! This was the instant thought of all; And if the lonely Lady there Should be; to her they cannot bear This weight of anguish and despair. So, when upon sad thoughts had prest Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best That, if the Priest should yield assent And no one hinder their intent, Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, In holy ground a grave would make; And straightway buried he should be In the Churchyard 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 Churchyard they are bound,
Bearing the body on a bier;

And psalms they sing a holy sound
That hill and vale with sadness hear.
But Emily hath raised her head,
And is again disquieted;

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That touch each other to the quick-in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of."

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 beat-
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!

- ΤΟ

'Tis done; - despoil and desolation
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;
Pools, terraces, and walks are 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,
Appears 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;

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30

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 bird's carolling.
Behold her, like a virgin Queen,
Neglecting in imperial state
These outward images of fate,
And carrying inward a serene

40

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,
À 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,

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60

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When, with a noise like distant thunder, A troop of deer came sweeping by; And, suddenly, behold a wonder! For One, among those rushing deer, A single One, in mid career

Hath stopped, and fixed her 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-
Looked round- but saw no

fear;

cause for

So 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.

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Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care,
This was for you a precious greeting;
And may it prove a 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 welcome, as a gift of grace,
The saddest thought the Creature brings?
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 her 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;

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A hut, by tufted trees defended, Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.

When Emily by morning light

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Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight.
She shrunk: with one frail shock of pain
Received and followed by a prayer,
She saw the Creature once again;
Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;-
But, wheresoever she looked round,
All now was trouble-haunted ground;
And therefore now she deems it good
Once more this restless neighbourhood
To leave. Unwooed, yet unforbidden,
The White Doe followed up the vale,
Up to another cottage, hidden
in the deep fork of Amerdale;
And there may Emily restore
Herself, in spots unseen before.
-Why tell of mossy rock, or tree,
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;

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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 kindliest intercourse ensue.
-Oh! surely 't was a gentle rousing
When she by sudden glimpse espied
The White Doe on the mountain browsing,
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 the azure sky.
-What now is left for pain or fear?
That Presence, dearer and more dear,

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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 apde;"
And all the hills were glad to bear
Their part in this effectual prayer.

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Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power; But with the White Doe at her side Up would she climb to Norton Tower, And thence look round her far and wide, 230 Her fate there measuring;- all is stilled, The weak One 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 all bereft, Hath yet this faithful Partner left; This one Associate, 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;

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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
In which the Creature first was found.
So beautiful the timid Thrall
(A spotless Youngling white as foam)
Her youngest Brother brought it home;
The youngest, then a lusty boy,
Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall
With heart brimful of pride and 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 she sate
Forlorn, but not disconsolate:

And, when she from the abyss returned
Of thought, she neither shrunk

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nor

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;

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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 churchyard ground; Here wanders like a gliding ghost, And every sabbath here is found;

33"

Comes with the people when the bells
Are heard among the moorland dells,
Finds entrance through yon arch, where

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;

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An Appendage to the "White Doe." My friend, Mr. Rogers, has also written on the subject. The story is preserved in Dr. Whitaker's History of Craven- a topographical writer of first-rate merit in all that concerns the past; but such was his aversion from the modern spirit, as shown in the spread of manufactories in those districts of which he treats, that his readers are left entirely ignorant both of the progress of these arts and their real bearing upon the comfort, virtues, and happiness of the inhabitants. While wandering on foot through the fertile valleys and over the moorlands of the Apennine that divides Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be delighted with observing the number of substantial cottages that had sprung up on every side, each having its little plot of fertile ground won from the surrounding waste. A bright and warm fire, if needed, was always to be found in these dwellings. The father was at his loom; the children looked healthy and happy. Is it not to be feared that the increase of mechanic power has done away with many of these blessings, and substituted many evils? Alas! if these evils grow, how are they to be checked, and where is the remedy to be found? Political economy will not supply it; that is certain, we must look to something deeper, purer, and higher.

"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; 10

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:

20

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 ?