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Methinks she passeth by the sight,
The day is placid in its going,
the dewy grass,
Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,
It was a solitary mound;
"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 blushed for joy, A shamefaced blush of glowing red ! Again the mother whispered 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
Asks of himself—and doubts—and still
That bearded, staff-supported sire, (Who in his youth hath often fed Full cheerily on convent-bread, And heard old tales by the convent-fire, And lately hath brought home the scars Gathered in long and distant wars) That old man-studious to expound The spectacle-hath mounted high To days of dim antiquity; When Lady Adeliza mourned Her son, and felt in her despair, The pang
of unavailing prayer; Her son in Wharfe's abysses drowned,
The noble boy of Egremound.
Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door; And, through the chink in the fractured floor Look down, and see a griesly sight; A vault where the bodies are buried upright! 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 dragged 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 she 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 showed him sights, In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights; When under cloud of fear he lay, A shepherd clad in homely gray, 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 wished 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,