The summit of this bold ascent,
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free
As Pendle-hill or Pennygent

From wind, or frost, or vapours wet,
Had often heard the sound of glee
When there the youthful Nortons met,
To practise games and archery:
How proud and happy they! the crowd
Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud!
And from the scorching noon-tide sun,
From showers, or when the prize was won,
They to the Watch-tower did repair,
Commodious Pleasure-house! and there
Would mirth run round, with generous fare;
And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall,
He was the proudest of them all!

But now, his Child, with anguish pale,
Upon the height walks to and fro;
"Tis well that she hath heard the tale,
Received the bitterness of woe:
For she had hoped, had hoped and feared,
Such rights did feeble nature claim;
And oft her steps had hither steered,
Though not unconscious of self-blame;
For she her brother's charge revered,
His farewell words; and by the same,
Yea, by her brother's very name,
Had, in her solitude, been cheered.

*It is so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whitaker:-"Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old warfare between the Nortons and Cliffords. On a point of very high ground, commanding an immense prospect, and protected by two deep ravines, are the remains of a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth to have been built by Richard Norton. The walls are of strong grout-work, about four feet thick. It seems to have been three stories high. Breaches have been industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, to render it untenable.

"But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure-house in summer, as there are, adjoining to it, several large mounds, two of them are pretty entire.) of which no other account can be given than that they were butts for large companies of archers.

She turned to him, who with his eye
Was watching her while on the height
She sate, or wandered restlessly,
O'erburthened by her sorrow's weight;
To him who this dire news had told
And now beside the Mourner stood;
(That gray-haired Man of gentle blood,
Who with her Father had grown old
In friendship, rival Hunters they,
And fellow Warriors in their day)
To Rylstone he the tidings brought;
Then on this place the Maid had sought:
And told, as gently as could be,
The end of that sad Tragedy,
Which it had been his lot to see.

To him the Lady turned; "You said That Francis lives, he is not dead?"

"Your noble Brother hath been spared,
To take his life they had not dared;
On him and on his high endeavour
The light of praise shall shine for ever!
Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain
His solitary course maintain:
Not vainly struggled in the might
Of duty, seeing with clear sight;
He was their comfort to the last,
Their joy till every pang was past.

"I witnessed when to York they came-
What, Lady, if their feet were tied;
They might deserve a good Man's blame;
But, marks of infamy and shame,
These were their triumph, these their pride
Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd
Deep feeling, that found utterance loud,
'Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried,
'A Prisoner once, but now set free!
'Tis well, for he the worst defied
For sake of natural Piety;

He rose not in this quarrel, he
His Father and his Brothers wooed,

Both for their own and Country's good,
he did divide
To rest in peace-
He parted from them; but at their side
Now walks in unanimity -
Then peace to cruelty and scorn,
While to the prison they are borne,
Peace, peace to all indignity!"

"And so in Prison were they laid Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, For I am come with power to bless,

By scattering gleams, through your distress, Of a redeeming happiness.

A spring-tide of immortal green:
The darksome Altars would have blazed
Like stars when clouds are rolled away;
Salvation to all eyes that gazed,
Once more the Rood had been upraised
To spread its arms, and stand for aye.
Then, then, had I survived to sce
New life in Bolton Priory;
The voice restored, the eye of Truth
Re-opened that inspired my youth;
To see her in her pomp arrayed;
This Banner (for such vow I made)
Should on the consecrated breast
Of that same Temple have found rest:
I would myself have hung it high,
Glad offering of glad victory!

And turned away from thee, my Son! And left-but be the rest unsaid,

The name untouched, 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 answered fervently, 'If God so will, the same shall be.'

'Immediately, this solemn word
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard,
And Officers appeared 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 reached the door,
The Banner, which a Soldier bore,
One marshalled thus with base intent
That he in scorn might go before,
And, holding up this monument,
Conduct them to their punishment;
So cruel Sussex, unrestrained
By human feeling, had ordained.
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
Confirmed 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 passed of him who stood
With Emily, on the Watch-tower height,
In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood,
He told; and oftentimes with voice
Of power to comfort or rejoice;

For deepest sorrows that aspire,

Go high, no transport ever higher.

66

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.

CANTO SIXTH.

WHY comes not Francis?
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-opened 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 concealed from sight,
And cross the expanse, in open flight,
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on; -
-nor heeds
The sorrow through the Villages,
Spread by triumphant cruelties
Of vengeful military force,
And punishment without remorse.
He marked not, heard not as he fled;
All but the suffering heart was dead,
For him abandoned 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.

Joyful cheer

He looked about like one betrayed:

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,
Swayed 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 sighed, 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 hiil;
And up the vale of Wharf his way
Pursued; and, on the second day,
He reached 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.

'Tis 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 claimed,
And with that charge had disappeared;
By all the standers-by revered.

His whole bold carriage (which had quelled
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled
All censure, enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven
Against that overcoming light)

Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,
That to what place soever fled

He should be seized, alive or dead.

The troop of horse have gained the night 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,

66

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 be from the beaten road
Retreated tow'rds a brake of thorn,
Which like a place of 'vantage showed;
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

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!

CANTO SEVENTH.

THOU Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the Harp a strong commaud,
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!

'Tis done;

despoil and desolation

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 Bird's carolling.
Behold her, like a Virgin Queen,
Neglecting in imperial state
These outward images of fate,

After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates were forfeited to the crown, where they remained till the 2d or 3d of

James; they were then granted to Francis, Earl of Cumberland." From an accurate survey made at that time, several particulars have been extracted by Dr. W. It appears that the mansion-house was then in decay. Immediately adjoining is a close, called the Vivery, so called, undoubtedly, from the French Vivier, or modern Latin Vivarium; for there are near the house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were introduced in the earlier part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary works, fish-ponds, an island, &c. The whole township was ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer, the property of the Lord, which, together with the wood, had, after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The wood, it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, before which time it appears that the neighbourhood must have exhi bited a forest-like and sylvan scene. In this survey, among the old tenants, is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with his master, and was executed

at Ripon.

Such is her sovereign mien: - her dress
(A vest with woollen cincture tieù,
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.