Gently as a weary wave
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath disd
Against an anchor'd vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.
The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the river in its flowing:
Can there be a softer sound?
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant creature lies
Couch'd upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes.
When now again the people rear
A voice of praise with awful cheer!
It is the last, the parting song;
And from the temple forth they throng-
And quickly spread themselves abroad-
While each pursues his several road.
But some, a variegated band
Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung,
Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,
Towards the spot, where full in view,
The lovely doe of whitest hue,
Her sabbath couch has made.
It was a solitary mound;
Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide :
As if in some respect of pride;
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood;
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.
"Look, there she is, my child! draw near:
She fears not-wherefore should we fear?
She means no harm ;"-but still the boy,
To whom the words were softly said,
Hung back, and smiled, and blush'd for joy,
A shame-faced blush of glowing red!
Again the mother whisper'd low,
"Now you have seen the famous doe;
From Rylstone she hath found her way
Over the hills this sabbath day;
Her work, whate'er it be, is done,
And she will depart when we are gone;
Thus doth she keep, from year to year,
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."
This whisper soft repeats what he
Had known from early infancy.
Bright is the creature-as in dreams
Which, though seemingly doom'd in its breast to sustain
A soften'd remembrance of sorrow and pain,
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright,
And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light.
Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door,
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
And, in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce esquire,
A valiant man, and a name of dread,
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragg'd Earl Pembroke from Banbury church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch
Look down among them, if;
you dare;
Oft does the white doe loiter there,
Prying into the darksome rent;
Nor can it be with good intent;
So thinks that dame of haughty air,
Who hath a page her book to hold,
And wears a frontlet edged with gold.
Well may her thoughts be harsh; for sho
Numbers among her ancestry
Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!
That slender youth, a scholar pale,
From Oxford come to his native vale,
He also hath his own conceit :
It is, thinks he, the gracious fairy
Who loved the shepherd lord to meet
In his wanderings solitary;
Wild notes she in his hearing sang,
A song of Nature's hidden powers,
That whistled like the wind, and rang
Among the rocks and holly bowers.
"Twas said that she all shapes could wear,
And oftentimes before him stood,
Amid the trees of some thick wood,
In semblance of a lady fair,
And taught him signs, and show'd him sights
In Craven's dens, on Cumbria's heights;
When under cloud of fear he lay,
A shepherd clad in homely grey,
Nor left him at his later day.
And hence, when he, with spear and shield,
Rode, full of years, to Flodden field,
His eye could see the hidden spring,
And how the current was to flow;
The fatal end of Scotland's king,
And all that hopeless overthrow.
But not in wars did he delight,
This Clifford wish'd for worthier might;
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
Him his own thoughts did elevate,
Most happy in the shy recess
Of Barden's humble quietness.
And choice of studious friends had he
Of Bolton's dear fraternity,
Who, standing on this old church tower,
In many a calm propitious hour,
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE,
Perused, with him, the starry sky;
Or in their cells with him did pry
For other lore, through strong desire
Searching the earth with chemic fire;
But they and their good works are fled,
And all is now disquieted,
And peace is none, for living or dead!
Ah, pensive scholar! think not so,
But look again at the radiant doe!
What quiet watch she seems to keep,
Alone, beside that grassy heap!
Why mention other thoughts unmeet
For vision so composed and sweet?
While stand the people in a ring,
Gazing, doubting, questioning;
Yea, many overcome, in spite
Of recollections clear and bright,
Which yet do unto some impart
An undisturb'd repose of heart.
And all the assembly own a law
Of orderly respect and awe;
But see! they vanish, one by one;
And last, the doe herself is gone.
Harp! we have been full long beguiled
By busy dreams and fancies wild,
To which, with no reluctant strings,
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
And now before this pile we stand
In solitude and utter peace :
But, harp! thy murmurs may not cease,
Thou hast breeze-like visitings;
For a spirit with angel wings
Hath touch'd thee, and a spirit's hand:
A voice is with us-a command
To chant, in strains of heavenly glory,
A tale of tears, a mortal story!
THE harp in lowliness obey'd;
And first we sang of the greenwood shado,
And a solitary maid;
Beginning, where the song must end,
With her, and with her sylvan friend;
The friend who stood before her sight,
Her only unextinguish'd light,--
Her last companion, in a dearth
Of love, upon a hopeless earth.
For she it was,-'twas she who wrought
WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.
An unbless'd work, which, standing by,
Her father did with joy behold,
Exulting in the imagery;
A banner-one that did fulfil
Too perfectly his headstrong will:
For on this banner had her hand
Embroider'd (such was the command)
The sacred cross, and figured there
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
Full soon to be uplifted high,
And float in rueful company!
It was the time when England's queen
Twelve years had reign'd, a sovereign dread;
Nor yet the restless crown had been
Disturb'd upon her virgin head;
But now the inly-working north
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight
In Percy's and in Neville's right,
Two earls fast leagued in discontent,
Who gave their wishes open vent,
And boldly urged a general plea,-
The rites of ancient piety
To be by force of arms renew'd;
Glad prospect for the multitude!
And that same banner, on whose breast
The blameless lady had express'd
Memorials chosen to give life
And sunshine to a dangerous strife;
This banner, waiting for the call,
Stood quietly in Rylstone Hall.
It came-and Francis Norton said,
"O father! rise not in this fray,-
The hairs are white upon your head:
Dear father! hear me when I say
It is for you too late a day.
Bethink you of your own good name;
A just and gracious queen have we,
A pure religion, and the claim
Of peace on our humanity.
"Tis meet that I endure your scorn,-
I am your son, your eldest born;
But not for lordship or for land,
My father, do I clasp your knees;
The banner touch not, stay your hand,
This multitude of men disband,
And live at home in blissful ease;
For these my brethren's sake-for mo-
And, most of all, for Emily!"
Loud noise was in the crowded hall,
And scarcely could the father hear
That name, which had a dying fall,
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