part II

. canto i. ll. 567-8--

That shall infuse Eternal Spring And everlasting flourishing. ED.

[B] This line is from _The Battle of Bosworth Field_, by Sir John Beaumont (Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with so much spirit, elegance, and harmony, that it is supposed, as the Book is very scarce, a new edition of it would be acceptable to Scholars and Men of taste, and, accordingly, it is in contemplation to give one.--W. W. 1807.

Beaumont's line in _The Battle of Bosworth Field_ is--

The earth assists thee with the cry of blood. ED.

[C] "No three words could better describe the gulfs on the side of Saddleback." (H. D. Rawnsley.)

[D] "Rugged patches of Hawkweed, golden rod, and white water ranunculus in the pools." (H. D. Rawnsley.)

[E] The eagle nested in Borrowdale as late as 1785.--ED.

[F] It is imagined by the people of the Country that there are two immortal Fish, Inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.--W. W. 1807.

[G] The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field.--W. W. 1807.

Compare _The Borderers_, act III. l. 56 (vol. i. p. 173)--

They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man. ED.

[H] He was killed at Ferrybridge the day before the battle of Towton.--ED.

1808

The poems referring to Coleorton are all transferred to the year 1807, and _The Force of Prayer_ was written in that year. Those composed in 1808 were few in number. With the exception of _The White Doe of Rylstone_--to which additions were made in that year--they include only the two sonnets _Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a Tract, occasioned by the Convention of Cintra_, and the fragment on _George and Sarah Green_. The latter poem Wordsworth gave to De Quincey, who published it in his "Recollections of Grasmere," which appeared in _Tait's Edinburgh Magazine_ in September 1839; but it never found a place in any edition of Wordsworth's own poems. In this edition it is printed in the appendix to volume viii.

The reasons which have led me to assign _The White Doe of Rylstone_ to the year 1808, are stated in a note to the poem (see p. 191). I infer that it was practically finished in April 1808, because Dorothy Wordsworth, in a letter to Lady Beaumont, dated April 20, 1808, says, "The poem is to be published. Longman has consented--in spite of the odium under which my brother labours as a poet--to give him 100 guineas for 1000 copies, according to his demand." She gives no indication of the name of the poem referred to. As it must, however, have been one which was to be published separately, she can only refer to _The White Doe_ or to _The Excursion_; but the latter poem was not finished in 1808.

It is probable, from the remark made in a subsequent letter to Lady Beaumont, February 1810, that Wordsworth intended either to add to what he had written in 1808, or to alter some passages before publication; or by "completing" the poem, he may have meant simply adding the Dedication, which was not written till 1815.

All things considered, it seems the best arrangement that the poems of 1808 should begin with _The White Doe of Rylstone_. In the year 1891 I edited this poem for the Clarendon Press. A few additional details have come to light since then, and are introduced into the notes. S. T. Coleridge's criticism of the poem in _Biographia Literaria_, vol. ii. chap. xxii. p. 176 (edition 1817), should be consulted.--ED.

THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE;

OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS

Composed 1807-10.--Published 1815

ADVERTISEMENT

During the Summer of 1807, I visited, for the first time, the beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and the Poem of the WHITE DOE, founded upon a Tradition connected with that place, was composed at the close of the same year.--W. W.[A]

[The earlier half of this poem was composed at Stockton-upon-Tees, when Mrs. Wordsworth and I were on a visit to her eldest brother, Mr. Hutchinson, at the close of the year 1807. The country is flat, and the weather was rough. I was accustomed every day to walk to and fro under the shelter of a row of stacks, in a field at a small distance from the town, and there poured forth my verses aloud as freely as they would come. Mrs. Wordsworth reminds me that her brother stood upon the punctilio of not sitting down to dinner till I joined the party; and it frequently happened that I did not make my appearance till too late, so that she was made uncomfortable. I here beg her pardon for this and similar transgressions during the whole course of our wedded life. To my beloved sister the same apology is due.

When, from the visit just mentioned, we returned to Town-end, Grasmere, I proceeded with the poem; and it may be worth while to note, as a caution to others who may cast their eye on these memoranda, that the skin having been rubbed off my heel by my wearing too tight a shoe, though I desisted from walking, I found that the irritation of the wounded part was kept up, by the act of composition, to a degree that made it necessary to give my constitution a holiday. A rapid cure was the consequence. Poetic excitement, when accompanied by protracted labour in composition, has throughout my life brought on more or less bodily derangement. Nevertheless, I am at the close of my seventy-third year, in what may be called excellent health; so that intellectual labour is not necessarily unfavourable to longevity. But perhaps I ought here to add that mine has been generally carried on out of doors.

Let me here say a few words of this poem in the way of criticism. The subject being taken from feudal times has led to its being compared to some of Walter Scott's poems that belong to the same age and state of society. The comparison is inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the customary and very natural course of conducting an action, presenting various turns of fortune, to some outstanding point on which the mind might rest as a termination or catastrophe. The course I have attempted to pursue is entirely different. Everything that is attempted by the principal personages in _The White Doe_ fails, so far as its object is external and substantial. So far as it is moral and spiritual it succeeds. The heroine of the poem knows that her duty is not to interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay them, but

to abide The shock, and finally secure O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.

This she does in obedience to her brother's injunction, as most suitable to a mind and character that, under previous trials, has been proved to accord with his. She achieves this not without aid from the communication with the inferior Creature, which often leads her thoughts to revolve upon the past with a tender and humanising influence that exalts rather than depresses her. The anticipated beatification, if I may so say, of her mind, and the apotheosis of the companion of her solitude, are the points at which the Poem aims, and constitute its legitimate catastrophe, far too spiritual a one for instant or widely-spread sympathy, but not, therefore, the less fitted to make a deep and permanent impression upon that class of minds who think and feel more independently, than the many do, of the surfaces of things and interests transitory, because belonging more to the outward and social forms of life than to its internal spirit. How insignificant a thing, for example, does personal prowess appear compared with the fortitude of patience and heroic martyrdom; in other words, with struggles for the sake of principle, in preference to victory gloried in for its own sake.--I. F.]

DEDICATION

I

In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,[B] And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire, When years of wedded life were as a day Whose current answers to the heart's desire, Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 5 How Una, sad of soul--in sad attire, The gentle Una, of celestial birth,[1] To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.

II

Ah, then, Belovèd! pleasing was the smart, And the tear precious in compassion shed 10 For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, Did meekly bear the pang unmerited; Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,--[C] And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 15 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.

III

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught; Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, And all its finer inspiration caught; 20 Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, We by a lamentable change were taught That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:"[D] How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

IV

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 25 For us the voice of melody was mute. --But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, And give the timid herbage leave to shoot, Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 30 Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

V

It soothed us--it beguiled us--then, to hear Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell; And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 35 The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel: Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer, High over hill and low adown the dell Again we wandered, willing to partake All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. 40

VI

Then, too, this Song _of mine_ once more could please, Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, Is tempered and allayed by sympathies Aloft ascending, and descending deep, Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees 45 Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep Of the sharp winds;--fair Creatures!--to whom Heaven A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

VII

This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks Of female patience winning firm repose; 50 And, of the recompense that[2] conscience seeks, A bright, encouraging, example shows; Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, Needful amid life's ordinary woes;-- Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 55 A happy hour with holier happiness.

VIII

He serves the Muses erringly and ill, Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive: O, that my mind were equal to fulfil The comprehensive mandate which they give-- 60 Vain aspiration of an earnest will! Yet in this moral Strain a power may live, Belovèd Wife! such solace to impart As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND, _April 20, 1815_.

"Action is transitory--a step, a blow, 65 The motion of a muscle--this way or that-- 'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And has the nature of infinity. 70 Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem And irremovable) gracious openings lie, By which the soul--with patient steps of thought Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer-- May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 75 Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."[E]

"They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a Man, who to him is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature than his own could never attain. So Man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain."

LORD BACON.[F]

CANTO FIRST

From Bolton's old monastic tower[G] The bells ring loud with gladsome power; The sun shines[3] bright; the fields are gay With people in their best array Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 5 Along the banks of crystal Wharf,[4] Through the Vale retired and lowly, Trooping to that summons holy. And, up among the moorlands, see What sprinklings of blithe company! 10 Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, That down the steep hills force their way, Like cattle through the budded brooms; Path, or no path, what care they? And thus in joyous mood they hie 15 To Bolton's mouldering Priory.[H]

What would they there!--full fifty years That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, Too harshly hath been doomed to taste The bitterness of wrong and waste: 20 Its courts are ravaged; but the tower Is standing with a voice of power,[I] That ancient voice which wont to call To mass or some high festival; And in the shattered fabric's heart 25 Remaineth one protected part; A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest;[5][J] And thither young and old repair, This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 30

Fast the church-yard fills;--anon Look again, and they all are gone; The cluster round the porch, and the folk Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak![K] And scarcely have they disappeared 35 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:-- With one consent the people rejoice, Filling the church with a lofty voice! They sing a service which they feel: For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal; 40 Of a pure faith the vernal prime--[6] In great Eliza's golden time.

A moment ends the fervent din, And all is hushed, without and within; For though the priest, more tranquilly, 45 Recites the holy liturgy, The only voice which you can hear Is the river murmuring near. --When soft!--the dusky trees between, And down the path through the open green, 50 Where is no living thing to be seen; And through yon gateway, where is found, Beneath the arch with ivy bound, Free entrance to the church-yard ground-- [7]Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 55 Comes gliding in serene and slow, Soft and silent as a dream, A solitary Doe! White she is as lily of June, And beauteous as the silver moon 60 When out of sight the clouds are driven And she is left alone in heaven; Or like a ship some gentle day In sunshine sailing far away, A glittering ship, that hath the plain 65 Of ocean for her own domain.

Lie silent in your graves, ye dead! Lie quiet in your church-yard bed! Ye living, tend your holy cares; Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 70 And blame not me if my heart and sight Are occupied with one delight! 'Tis a work for sabbath hours If I with this bright Creature go: Whether she be of forest bowers, 75 From the bowers of earth below; Or a Spirit for one day given, A pledge[8] of grace from purest heaven.

What harmonious pensive changes Wait upon her as she ranges 80 Round and through this Pile of state Overthrown and desolate! Now a step or two her way Leads through[9] space of open day, Where the enamoured sunny light 85 Brightens her that was so bright;[L] Now doth a delicate shadow fall, Falls upon her like a breath, From some lofty arch or wall, As she passes underneath: 90 Now some gloomy nook partakes Of the glory that she makes,-- High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell, With perfect cunning framed as well Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 95 Of the elder's bushy head; Some jealous and forbidding cell, That doth the living stars repel, And where no flower hath leave to dwell.

The presence of this wandering Doe 100 Fills many a damp obscure recess With lustre of a saintly show; And, reappearing, she no less Sheds on the flowers that round her blow A more than sunny liveliness.[10] 105 But say, among these holy places, Which thus assiduously she paces, Comes she with a votary's task, Rite to perform, or boon to ask? Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense 110 Of sorrow, or of reverence? Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, Crushed as if by wrath divine? For what survives of house where God Was worshipped, or where Man abode; 115 For old magnificence undone; Or for the gentler work begun By Nature, softening and concealing, And busy with a hand of healing?[M] Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 120 That to the sapling ash gives birth; For dormitory's length laid bare Where the wild rose blossoms fair;[N] Or altar, whence the cross was rent, Now rich with mossy ornament?[11] 125 --She sees a warrior carved in stone, Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;[O] A warrior, with his shield of pride Cleaving humbly to his side, And hands in resignation prest, 130 Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast; As little she regards the sight[12] As a common creature might: If she be doomed to inward care, Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 135 --But hers are eyes serenely bright, And on she moves--with pace how light! Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste The dewy turf with flowers bestrown; And thus she fares, until at last[13] 140 Beside the ridge of a grassy grave In quietness she lays her down; Gentle[14] as a weary wave Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, Against an anchored vessel's side; 145 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 crystal stream now flowing 150 With its softest summer sound:[15] So the balmy minutes pass, While this radiant Creature lies Couched upon the dewy grass, Pensively with downcast eyes. 155 --But now again the people raise With awful cheer a voice of praise;[16] It is the last, the parting song; And from the temple forth they throng, And quickly spread themselves abroad, 160 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-- 165 With mute obeisance gladly paid Turn towards the spot, where, full in view, The white Doe, to her service true,[17] Her sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound; 170 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; 175 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, 180 To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, A shamed-faced blush of glowing red! Again the Mother whispered low, "Now you have seen the famous Doe; 185 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, 190 Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."

[18]Bright was[19] the Creature, as in dreams The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright; But is she truly what she seems? He asks with insecure delight, 195 Asks of himself, and doubts,--and still The doubt returns against his will: Though he, and all the standers-by, Could tell a tragic history Of facts divulged, wherein appear 200 Substantial motive, reason clear, Why thus the milk-white Doe is found Couchant beside that lonely mound; And why she duly loves to pace The circuit of this hallowed place. 205 Nor to the Child's inquiring mind Is such perplexity confined: For, spite of sober Truth that sees A world of fixed remembrances Which to this mystery belong, 210 If, undeceived, my skill can trace The characters of every face, There lack not strange delusion here, Conjecture vague, and idle fear, And superstitious fancies strong, 215 Which do the gentle Creature wrong.

That bearded, staff-supported Sire-- Who in his boyhood often fed[20] Full cheerily on convent-bread And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 220 And to his grave will go with scars, Relics of long and distant wars--[21] That Old Man, studious to expound The spectacle, is mounting[22] high To days of dim antiquity; 225 When Lady Aäliza mourned Her Son,[P] and felt in her despair The pang of unavailing prayer; Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned, The noble Boy of Egremound.[Q] 230 From which affliction--when the grace Of God had in her heart found place--[23] A pious structure, fair to see, Rose up, this stately Priory! The Lady's work;--but now laid low; 235 To the grief of her soul that doth come and go, In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe: Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain, Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright; 240 And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light.

Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;[R] And, through the chink in the fractured floor Look down, and see a griesly sight; A vault where the bodies are buried upright![S] 245 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 250 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, 255 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. 260 Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree-- Who counts among her ancestry[24] Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!

That slender Youth, a scholar pale, From Oxford come to his native vale, 265 He also hath his own conceit: It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet[T] In his wanderings solitary: Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 270 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, 275 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[25] heights; When under cloud of fear he lay, 280 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, 285 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; 290 Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state; Him his own thoughts did elevate,-- Most happy in the shy recess Of Barden's lowly[26] quietness.[U] And choice of studious friends had he 295 Of Bolton's dear fraternity; Who, standing on this old church tower, In many a calm propitious hour, Perused, with him, the starry sky; Or, in their cells, with him did pry 300 For other lore,--by keen desire Urged to close toil with chemic fire;[27] In quest belike of transmutations Rich as the mine's most bright creations.[28] But they and their good works are fled, 305 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, 310 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; 315 Yea, many overcome in spite Of recollections clear and bright; Which yet do unto some impart An undisturbed repose of heart. And all the assembly own a law 320 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 vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild;[29] 325 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-- 330 A Spirit, with his angelic wings, In soft and breeze-like visitings, Has touched thee--and a Spirit's hand:[30] A voice is with us--a command To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 335 A tale of tears, a mortal story!

CANTO SECOND

The Harp in lowliness obeyed; And first we sang of the green-wood shade And a solitary Maid; Beginning, where the song must end, With her, and with her sylvan Friend; 5 The Friend, who stood before her sight, Her only unextinguished light; Her last companion in a dearth Of love, upon a hopeless earth.

For She it was--this Maid, who wrought[31] 10 Meekly, with foreboding thought, In vermeil colours and in gold An unblest work; which, standing by, Her Father did with joy behold,-- Exulting in its[32] imagery; 15 A Banner, fashioned to fulfil[33] Too perfectly his headstrong will: For on this Banner had her hand Embroidered (such her Sire's command)[34] The sacred Cross; and figured there 20 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 24 Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;[V] Nor yet the restless crown had been Disturbed upon her virgin head; But now the inly-working North Was ripe to send its thousands forth, A potent vassalage, to fight 30 In Percy's and in Neville's right,[W] Two Earls fast leagued in discontent, Who gave their wishes open vent; And boldly urged a general plea, The rites of ancient piety 35 To be triumphantly restored, By the stern justice of the sword![35] And that same Banner on whose breast The blameless Lady had exprest Memorials chosen to give life 40 And sunshine to a dangerous strife; That[36] Banner, waiting for the Call, Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall.

It came; and Francis Norton said, "O Father! rise not in this fray-- 45 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, 50 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, 55 My Father, do I clasp your knees; The Banner touch not, stay your hand, This multitude of men disband, And live at home in blameless[37] ease; For these my brethren's sake, for me; 60 And, most of all, for Emily!"

Tumultuous noises filled the hall;[38] And scarcely could the Father hear That name--pronounced with a dying fall--[39][X] The name of his only Daughter dear, 65 As on[40] the banner which stood near He glanced a look of holy pride, And his moist[41] eyes were glorified; Then did he seize the staff, and say:[42] "Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name, 70 Keep thou this ensign till the day When I of thee require the same: Thy place be on my better hand;-- And seven as true as thou, I see, Will cleave to this good cause and me." 75 He spake, and eight brave sons straightway All followed him, a gallant band!

Thus, with his sons, when forth he came The sight was hailed with loud acclaim And din of arms and minstrelsy,[43] 80 From all his warlike tenantry, All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,-- A voice[44] to which the hills replied!

But Francis, in the vacant hall, Stood silent under dreary weight,-- 85 A phantasm, in which roof and wall Shook, tottered, swam before his sight; A phantasm like a dream of night! Thus overwhelmed, and desolate, He found his way to a postern-gate; 90 And, when he waked, his languid eye[45] Was on the calm and silent sky; With air about him breathing sweet, And earth's green grass beneath his feet; Nor did he fail ere long to hear 95 A sound of military cheer, Faint--but it reached that sheltered spot; He heard, and it disturbed him not.

There stood he, leaning on a lance Which he had grasped unknowingly, 100 Had blindly grasped in that strong trance, That dimness of heart-agony; There stood he, cleansed from the despair And sorrow of his fruitless prayer. The past he calmly hath reviewed: 105 But where will be the fortitude Of this brave man, when he shall see That Form beneath the spreading tree, And know that it is Emily?[46]

He saw her where in open view 110 She sate beneath the spreading yew-- Her head upon her lap, concealing In solitude her bitter feeling: [47]"Might ever son _command_ a sire, The act were justified to-day." 115 This to himself--and to the Maid, Whom now he had approached, he said-- "Gone are they,--they have their desire; And I with thee one hour will stay, To give thee comfort if I may." 120

She heard, but looked not up, nor spake; And sorrow moved him to partake Her silence; then his thoughts turned round,[48] And fervent words a passage found.

"Gone are they, bravely, though misled; 125 With a dear Father at their head! The Sons obey a natural lord; The Father had given solemn word To noble Percy; and a force Still stronger, bends him to his course. 130 This said, our tears to-day may fall As at an innocent funeral. In deep and awful channel runs This sympathy of Sire and Sons; Untried our Brothers have been loved[49] 135 With heart by simple nature moved;[50] And now their faithfulness is proved: For faithful we must call them, bearing That soul of conscientious daring. --There were they all in circle--there 140 Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher, John with a sword that will not fail, And Marmaduke in fearless mail, And those bright Twins were side by side; And there, by fresh hopes beautified, 145 Stood He,[51] whose arm yet lacks the power Of man, our youngest, fairest flower! I, by the right[52] of eldest born, And in a second father's place, Presumed to grapple with[53] their scorn, 150 And meet their pity face to face; Yea, trusting in God's holy aid, I to my Father knelt and prayed; And one, the pensive Marmaduke, Methought, was yielding inwardly, 155 And would have laid his purpose by, But for a glance of his Father's eye, Which I myself could scarcely brook.

"Then be we, each and all, forgiven! Thou, chiefly thou,[54] my Sister dear, 160 Whose pangs are registered in heaven-- The stifled sigh, the hidden tear, And smiles, that dared to take their place, Meek filial smiles, upon thy face, As that unhallowed Banner grew 165 Beneath a loving old Man's view. Thy part is done--thy painful part; Be thou then satisfied in heart! A further, though far easier, task Than thine hath been, my duties ask; 170 With theirs my efforts cannot blend, I cannot for such cause contend; Their aims I utterly forswear; But I in body will be there. Unarmed and naked will I go, 175 Be at their side, come weal or woe: On kind occasions I may wait, See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. Bare breast I take and an empty hand."--[Y] Therewith he threw away the lance, 180 Which he had grasped in that strong trance; Spurned it, like something that would stand Between him and the pure intent Of love on which his soul was bent.

"For thee, for thee, is left the sense 185 Of trial past without offence To God or man; such innocence, Such consolation, and the excess Of an unmerited distress; In that thy very strength must lie. 190 --O Sister, I could prophesy! The time is come that rings the knell Of all we loved, and loved so well: Hope nothing, if I thus may speak To thee, a woman, and thence weak: 195 Hope nothing, I repeat; for we Are doomed to perish utterly: 'Tis meet that thou with me divide The thought while I am by thy side, Acknowledging a grace in this, 200 A comfort in the dark abyss. But look not for me when I am gone, And be no farther wrought upon: Farewell all wishes, all debate, All prayers for this cause, or for that! 205 Weep, if that aid thee; but depend Upon no help of outward friend; Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave To fortitude without reprieve. For we must fall, both we and ours-- 210 This Mansion and these pleasant bowers, Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall-- Our fate is theirs, will reach them all;[Z] The young horse must forsake his manger, And learn to glory in a Stranger; 215 The hawk forget his perch; the hound Be parted from his ancient ground: The blast will sweep us all away-- One desolation, one decay! And even this Creature!" which words saying, 220 He pointed to a lovely Doe, A few steps distant, feeding, straying; Fair creature, and more white than snow! "Even she will to her peaceful woods Return, and to her murmuring floods, 225 And be in heart and soul the same She was before she hither came; Ere she had learned to love us all, Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall. --But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 230 The last leaf on a blasted tree;[55] If not in vain we breathed[56] the breath Together of a purer faith; If hand in hand we have been led, And thou, (O happy thought this day!) 235 Not seldom foremost in the way; If on one thought our minds have fed, And we have in one meaning read; If, when at home our private weal Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 240 Together we have learned to prize Forbearance and self-sacrifice; If we like combatants have fared, And for this issue been prepared; If thou art beautiful, and youth 245 And thought endue thee with all truth-- Be strong;--be worthy of the grace Of God, and fill thy destined place: A Soul, by force of sorrows high, Uplifted to the purest sky 250 Of undisturbed humanity!"

He ended,--or she heard no more; He led her from the yew-tree shade, And at the mansion's silent door, He kissed the consecrated Maid; 255 And down the valley then pursued,[57] Alone, the armèd Multitude.

CANTO THIRD

Now joy for you who from the towers Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,[AA][58] Telling melancholy hours! Proclaim it, let your Masters hear That Norton with his band is near! 5 The watchmen from their station high Pronounced the word,--and the Earls descry, Well-pleased, the armèd Company[59] Marching down the banks of Were.

Said fearless Norton to the pair 10 Gone forth to greet[60] him on the plain "This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair, I bring with me a goodly train; Their hearts are with you: hill and dale Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and Swale, 15 And horse and harness followed--see The best part of their Yeomanry! --Stand forth, my Sons!--these eight are mine, Whom to this service I commend; Which way soe'er our fate incline, 20 These will be faithful to the end; They are my all"--voice failed him here-- "My all save one, a Daughter dear! Whom I have left, Love's mildest birth,[61] The meekest Child on this blessed earth. 25 I had--but these are by my side, These Eight, and this is a day of pride! The time is ripe. With festive din Lo! how the people are flocking in,-- Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 30 When snow lies heavy upon the land."

He spake bare truth; for far and near From every side came noisy swarms Of Peasants in their homely gear; And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 35 Grave Gentry of estate and name, And Captains known for worth in arms; And prayed the Earls in self-defence To rise, and prove their innocence.-- "Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 40 For holy Church, and the People's right!"

The Norton fixed, at this demand, His eye upon Northumberland, And said; "The Minds of Men will own No loyal rest while England's Crown 45 Remains without an Heir, the bait Of strife and factions desperate; Who, paying deadly hate in kind Through all things else, in this can find A mutual hope, a common mind; 50 And plot, and pant to overwhelm All ancient honour in the realm. --Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins Our noblest blood is given in trust, To you a suffering State complains, 55 And ye must raise her from the dust. With wishes of still bolder scope On you we look, with dearest hope; Even for our Altars--for the prize In Heaven, of life that never dies; 60 For the old and holy Church we mourn, And must in joy to her return. Behold!"--and from his Son whose stand Was on his right, from that guardian hand He took the Banner, and unfurled 65 The precious folds--"behold," said he, "The ransom of a sinful world; Let this your preservation be; The wounds of hands and feet and side, And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died! 70 --This bring I from an ancient hearth, These Records wrought in pledge of love By hands of no ignoble birth, A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 75 While she the holy work pursued." "Uplift the Standard!" was the cry From all the listeners that stood round, "Plant it,--by this we live or die." The Norton ceased not for that sound, 80 But said; "The prayer which ye have heard, Much injured Earls! by these preferred, Is offered to the Saints, the sigh Of tens of thousands, secretly." "Uplift it!" cried once more the Band, 85 And then a thoughtful pause ensued: "Uplift it!" said Northumberland-- Whereat, from all the multitude Who saw the Banner reared on high In all its dread emblazonry, 90 [62]A voice of uttermost joy brake out: The transport was rolled down the river of Were, And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear, And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by the shout![BB]

Now was the North in arms:--they shine 95 In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, At Percy's voice: and Neville sees His Followers gathering in from Tees, From Were, and all the little rills Concealed among the forkèd hills-- 100 Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all Of Neville, at their Master's call Had sate together in Raby Hall![CC] Such strength that Earldom held of yore; Nor wanted at this time rich store 105 Of well-appointed chivalry. --Not both the sleepy lance to wield, And greet the old paternal shield, They heard the summons;--and, furthermore, Horsemen and Foot of each degree,[63] 110 Unbound by pledge of fealty, Appeared, with free and open hate Of novelties in Church and State; night, burgher, yeoman, and esquire; And Romish priest,[64] in priest's attire. 115 And thus, in arms, a zealous Band Proceeding under joint command, To Durham first their course they bear; And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat Sang mass,--and tore the book of prayer,-- 120 And trod the bible beneath their feet.

Thence marching southward smooth and free "They mustered their host at Wetherby, Full sixteen thousand fair to see;"[DD] The Choicest Warriors of the North! 125 But none for beauty and for worth[65] Like those eight Sons--who, in a ring,[66] (Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring)[67] Each with a lance, erect and tall, A falchion, and a buckler small, 130 Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,[EE] [68]To guard the Standard which he bore. On foot they girt their Father round; And so will keep the appointed ground Where'er their march: no steed will he[69] 135 Henceforth bestride;--triumphantly, He stands upon the grassy sod,[70] Trusting himself to the earth, and God. Rare sight to embolden and inspire! Proud was the field of Sons and Sire; 140 Of him the most; and, sooth to say, No shape of man in all the array So graced the sunshine of that day. The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly Personage; 145 A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier[71] height; Magnific limbs of withered state; 150 A face to fear and venerate; Eyes dark and strong; and on his head Bright[72] locks of silver hair, thick spread, Which a brown morion half-concealed, Light as a hunter's of the field; 155 And thus, with girdle round his waist, Whereon the Banner-staff might rest At need, he stood, advancing high The glittering, floating Pageantry.

Who sees him?--thousands see,[73] and One 160 With unparticipated gaze; Who, 'mong those[74] thousands, friend hath none, And treads in solitary ways. He, following wheresoe'er he might, Hath watched the Banner from afar, 165 As shepherds watch a lonely star, Or mariners the distant light That guides them through[75] a stormy night. And now, upon a chosen plot Of rising ground, yon heathy spot! 170 He takes alone[76] his far-off stand, With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand. Bold is his aspect; but his eye Is pregnant with anxiety, While, like a tutelary Power, 175 He there stands fixed from hour to hour: Yet sometimes in more humble guise, Upon the turf-clad height he lies Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask In sunshine were his only task,[77] 180 Or by his mantle's help to find A shelter from the nipping wind: And thus, with short oblivion blest, His weary spirits gather rest. Again he lifts his eyes; and lo! 185 The pageant glancing to and fro; And hope is wakened by the sight, He[78] thence may learn, ere fall of night, Which way the tide is doomed to flow.

To London were the Chieftains bent; 190 But what avails the bold intent? A Royal army is gone forth To quell the RISING OF THE NORTH; They march with Dudley at their head, And, in seven days' space, will to York be led!-- Can such a mighty Host be raised 196 Thus suddenly, and brought so near? The Earls upon each other gazed, And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear; For, with a high and valiant name, 200 He bore a heart of timid frame;[79] And bold if both had been, yet they "Against so many may not stay."[FF] Back therefore will they hie to seize[80] A strong Hold on the banks of Tees; 205 There wait a favourable hour, Until Lord Dacre with his power From Naworth come;[81][GG] and Howard's aid Be with them openly displayed.

While through the Host, from man to man, 210 A rumour of this purpose ran, The Standard trusting[82] to the care Of him who heretofore did bear That charge, impatient Norton sought The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 215 And thus abruptly spake;--"We yield (And can it be?) an unfought field!-- How oft has strength, the strength of heaven,[83] To few triumphantly been given! Still do our very children boast 220 Of mitred Thurston--what a Host He conquered![HH]--Saw we not the Plain (And flying shall behold again) Where faith was proved?--while to battle moved The Standard, on the Sacred Wain 225 That bore it, compassed round by a bold Fraternity of Barons old; And with those grey-haired champions stood, Under the saintly ensigns three, The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood-- 230 All confident of victory!--[84] Shall Percy blush, then, for his name? Must Westmoreland be asked with shame Whose were the numbers, where the loss, In that other day of Neville's Cross?[II] 235 When the Prior of Durham with holy hand Raised, as the Vision gave command, Saint Cuthbert's Relic--far and near Kenned on the point of a lofty spear; While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower 240 To God descending in his power.[85] Less would not at our need be due To us, who war against the Untrue;-- The delegates of Heaven we rise, Convoked the impious to chastise: 245 We, we, the sanctities of old Would re-establish and uphold: Be warned"--His zeal the Chiefs confounded,[86] But word was given, and the trumpet sounded: Back through the melancholy Host 250 Went Norton, and resumed his post. Alas! thought he, and have I borne This Banner raised with joyful pride,[87] This hope of all posterity, By those dread symbols sanctified;[88] 255 Thus to become at once the scorn Of babbling winds as they go by, A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, To the light[89] clouds a mockery! --"Even these poor eight of mine would stem"-- Half to himself, and half to them 261 He spake--"would stem, or quell, a force Ten times their number, man and horse; This by their own unaided might, Without their father in their sight, 265 Without the Cause for which they fight; A Cause, which on a needful day Would breed us thousands brave as they." --So speaking, he his reverend head Raised towards that Imagery once more:[90] 270 But the familiar prospect shed Despondency unfelt before: A shock of intimations vain, Dismay,[91] and superstitious pain, Fell on him, with the sudden thought 275 Of her by whom the work was wrought:-- Oh wherefore was her countenance bright With love divine and gentle light? She would not, could not, disobey,[92] But her Faith leaned another way. 280 Ill tears she wept; I saw them fall, I overheard her as she spake Sad words to that mute Animal, The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake; She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 285 This Cross in tears: by her, and One Unworthier far we are undone-- Her recreant Brother--he prevailed Over that tender Spirit--assailed Too oft alas! by her whose head[93] 290 In the cold grave hath long been laid: She first, in reason's dawn beguiled Her docile, unsuspecting Child:[94] Far back--far back my mind must go To reach the well-spring of this woe! 295

While thus he brooded, music sweet Of border tunes was played to cheer The footsteps of a quick retreat; But Norton lingered in the rear, Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last 300 From his distracted brain was cast, Before his Father, Francis stood, And spake in firm and earnest mood.[95]

"Though here I bend a suppliant knee In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 305 In your indignant thoughts my share; Am grieved this backward march to see So careless and disorderly. I scorn your Chiefs--men who would lead, And yet want courage at their need: 310 Then look at them with open eyes! Deserve they further sacrifice?-- If--when they shrink, nor dare oppose In open field their gathering foes, (And fast, from this decisive day, 315 Yon multitude must melt away;) If now I ask a grace not claimed While ground was left for hope; unblamed Be an endeavour that can do No injury to them or you.[96] 320 My Father! I would help to find A place of shelter, till the rage Of cruel men do like the wind Exhaust itself and sink to rest; Be Brother now to Brother joined! 325 Admit me in the equipage Of your misfortunes, that at least, Whatever fate remain[97] behind, I may bear witness in my breast To your nobility of mind!" 330

"Thou Enemy, my bane and blight! Oh! bold to fight the Coward's fight Against all good"--but why declare, At length, the issue of a prayer Which love had prompted, yielding scope 335 Too free to one bright moment's hope?[98] Suffice it that the Son, who strove With fruitless effort to allay That passion, prudently gave way;[99] Nor did he turn aside to prove 340 His Brothers' wisdom or their love-- But calmly from the spot withdrew; His best endeavours[100] to renew, Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.

CANTO FOURTH

'Tis night: in silence looking down, The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees[101] A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, And Castle like a stately crown On the steep rocks of winding Tees;-- 5 And southward far, with moor between, Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,[102] The bright Moon sees that valley small Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall A venerable image yields 10 Of quiet to the neighbouring fields; While from one pillared chimney breathes The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths.[103] --The courts are hushed;--for timely sleep The grey-hounds to their kennel creep; 15 The peacock in the broad ash tree Aloft is roosted for the night, He who in proud prosperity Of colours manifold and bright Walked round, affronting the daylight; 20 And higher still, above the bower Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower The hall-clock in the clear moonshine With glittering finger points at nine.

Ah! who could think that sadness here 25 Hath[104] any sway? or pain, or fear? A soft and lulling sound is heard Of streams inaudible by day;[JJ] The garden pool's dark surface, stirred By the night insects in their play, 30 Breaks into dimples small and bright; A thousand, thousand rings of light That shape themselves and disappear Almost as soon as seen:--and lo! Not distant far, the milk-white Doe-- 35 The same who quietly was feeding On the green herb, and nothing heeding, When Francis, uttering to the Maid[105] His last words in the yew-tree shade, Involved whate'er by love was brought 40 Out of his heart, or crossed his thought, Or chance presented to his eye, In one sad sweep of destiny--[106] The same fair Creature, who hath found Her way into forbidden ground; 45 Where now--within this spacious plot For pleasure made, a goodly spot, With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades Of trellis-work in long arcades, And cirque and crescent framed by wall 50 Of close-clipt foliage green and tall, Converging walks, and fountains gay, And terraces in trim array-- Beneath yon cypress spiring high, With pine and cedar spreading wide 55 Their darksome boughs on either side, In open moonlight doth she lie; Happy as others of her kind, That, far from human neighbourhood, Range unrestricted as the wind, 60 Through park, or chase, or savage wood.

But see the consecrated Maid Emerging from a cedar shade[107] To open moonshine, where the Doe Beneath the cypress-spire is laid; 65 Like a patch of April snow-- Upon a bed of herbage green, Lingering in a woody glade Or behind a rocky screen-- Lonely relic! which, if seen 70 By the shepherd, is passed by With an inattentive eye. Nor more regard doth She bestow Upon the uncomplaining Doe[108] Now couched at ease, though oft this day 75 Not unperplexed nor free from pain, When she had tried, and tried in vain, Approaching in her gentle way, To win some look of love, or gain Encouragement to sport or play; 80 Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid Rejected, or with slight repaid.[109]

Yet Emily is soothed;--the breeze Came fraught with kindly sympathies. As she approached yon rustic Shed[110] 85 Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread Along the walls and overhead, The fragrance of the breathing flowers Revived[111] a memory of those hours When here, in this remote alcove, 90 (While from the pendent woodbine came Like odours, sweet as if the same) A fondly-anxious Mother strove To teach her salutary fears And mysteries above her years. 95 Yes, she is soothed: an Image faint, And yet not faint--a presence bright Returns to her--that blessèd Saint[112] Who with mild looks and language mild Instructed here her darling Child, 100 While yet a prattler on the knee, To worship in simplicity The invisible God, and take for guide The faith reformed and purified.

'Tis flown--the Vision, and the sense 105 Of that beguiling influence; "But oh! thou Angel from above, Mute Spirit[113] of maternal love, That stood'st before my eyes, more clear Than ghosts are fabled to appear 110 Sent upon embassies of fear; As thou thy presence hast to me Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry Descend on Francis; nor forbear To greet him with a voice, and say;-- 115 'If hope be a rejected stay, Do thou, my Christian Son, beware Of that most lamentable snare, The self-reliance of despair!'"[114]

Then from within the embowered retreat 120 Where she had found a grateful seat Perturbed she issues. She will go! Herself will follow to the war, And clasp her Father's knees;--ah, no! She meets the insuperable bar, 125 The injunction by her Brother laid; His parting charge--but ill obeyed-- That interdicted all debate, All prayer for this cause or for that; All efforts that would turn aside 130 The headstrong current of their fate: _Her duty is to stand and wait_;[115][KK] In resignation to abide The shock, AND FINALLY SECURE O'ER PAIN AND GRIEF A TRIUMPH PURE.[115] 135 --She feels it, and her pangs are checked.[116] But now, as silently she paced The turf, and thought by thought was chased, Came One who, with sedate respect, Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake;[117] 140 "An old man's privilege I take: Dark is the time--a woeful day! Dear daughter of affliction, say How can I serve you? point the way."

"Rights have you, and may well be bold: 145 You with my Father have grown old In friendship--strive--for his sake go-- Turn from us all the coming woe:[118] This would I beg; but on my mind A passive stillness is enjoined. 150 On you, if room for mortal aid Be left, is no restriction laid;[119] You not forbidden to recline With hope upon the Will divine."

"Hope," said the old Man, "must abide 155 With all of us, whate'er betide.[120] In Craven's Wilds is many a den, To shelter persecuted men:[LL] Far under ground is many a cave, Where they might lie as in the grave, 160 Until this storm hath ceased to rave: Or let them cross the River Tweed, And be at once from peril freed!"

"Ah tempt me not!" she faintly sighed; "I will not counsel nor exhort, 165 With my condition satisfied; But you, at least, may make report Of what befals;--be this your task-- This may be done;--'tis all I ask!"

She spake--and from the Lady's sight 170 The Sire, unconscious of his age, Departed promptly as a Page Bound on some errand of delight. --The noble Francis--wise as brave, Thought he, may want not skill[121] to save. 175 With hopes in tenderness concealed, Unarmed he followed to the field; Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,--[MM] "Grant that the Moon which shines this night 180 May guide them in a prudent flight!"

But quick the turns of chance and change, And knowledge has a narrow range; Whence idle fears, and needless pain, And wishes blind, and efforts vain.-- 185 The Moon may shine, but cannot be Their guide in flight--already she[122] Hath witnessed their captivity. She saw the desperate assault Upon that hostile castle made;-- 190 But dark and dismal is the vault Where Norton and his sons are laid! Disastrous issue!--he had said "This night yon faithless[123] Towers must yield, Or we for ever quit the field. 195 --Neville is utterly dismayed, For promise fails of Howard's aid; And Dacre to our call replies That _he_[124] is unprepared to rise. My heart is sick;--this weary pause 200 Must needs be fatal to our cause.[125] The breach is open--on the wall, This night,--the Banner shall be planted!" --'Twas done: his Sons were with him--all; They belt him round with hearts undaunted 205 And others follow;--Sire and Son Leap down into the court;--"'Tis won"-- They shout aloud--but Heaven decreed That with their joyful shout should close The triumph of a desperate deed[126] 210 Which struck with terror friends and foes! The friend shrinks back--the foe recoils From Norton and his filial band; But they, now caught within the toils, Against a thousand cannot stand;-- 215 The foe from numbers courage drew, And overpowered that gallant few. "A rescue for the Standard!" cried The Father from within the walls; But, see, the sacred Standard falls!-- 220 Confusion through the Camp spread[127] wide: Some fled; and some their fears detained: But ere the Moon had sunk to rest In her pale chambers of the west, Of that rash levy nought remained. 225

CANTO FIFTH

High on a point of rugged ground Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell Above the loftiest ridge or mound Where foresters or shepherds dwell, An edifice of warlike frame 5 Stands single--Norton Tower its name--[NN] It fronts all quarters, and looks round O'er path and road, and plain and dell, Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream Upon a prospect without bound. 10

The summit of this bold ascent-- Though bleak and bare, and seldom free[128] As Pendle-hill or Pennygent From wind, or frost, or vapours wet-- Had often heard the sound of glee 15 When there the youthful Nortons met, To practice games and archery: How proud and happy they! the crowd Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud! And from the scorching noon-tide sun,[129] 20 From showers, or when the prize was won, They to the Tower withdrew, and there[130] Would mirth run round, with generous fare; And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall, Was happiest, proudest,[131] of them all! 25

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: [132]For she _had_[133] hoped, had hoped and feared, 30 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, 35 Yea by her brother's very name, Had, in her solitude, been cheered.

Beside the lonely watch-tower stood[134] That grey-haired Man of gentle blood, Who with her Father had grown old 40 In friendship; rival hunters they, And fellow warriors in their day: To Rylstone he the tidings brought; Then on this height the Maid had sought, And, gently as he could, had told 45 The end of that dire Tragedy,[135] 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; 50 To take his life they have 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; 55 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-- 60 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 65 Deep feeling, that found utterance loud,[136] 'Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried,[137] 'A Prisoner once, but now set free! 'Tis well, for he the worst defied Through force of[138] natural piety; 70 He rose not in this quarrel, he, For concord's sake and England's good, Suit to his Brothers often made With tears, and of his Father prayed-- And when he had in vain withstood 75 Their purpose--then did he divide,[139] 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, 80 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,[140] through your distress, 85 Of a redeeming happiness. Me did a reverent pity move And privilege of ancient love; And, in your service, making bold, Entrance I gained to that strong-hold.[141] 90

"Your Father gave me cordial greeting; But to his purposes, that burned Within him, instantly returned: He was commanding and entreating, And said--'We need not stop, my Son! 95 Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on'--[142] And so to Francis he renewed His words, more calmly thus pursued.

"'Might this our enterprise have sped, Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 100 A renovation from the dead, 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, 105 Once more the Rood had been upraised To spread its arms, and stand for aye. Then, then--had I survived to see New life in Bolton Priory; The voice restored, the eye of Truth 110 Re-opened that inspired my youth; To see[143] her in her pomp arrayed-- This Banner (for such vow I made) Should on the consecrated breast Of that same Temple have found rest: 115 I would myself have hung it high, Fit[144] offering of glad victory!

"'A shadow of such thought remains To cheer this sad and pensive time; A solemn fancy yet sustains 120 One feeble Being--bids me climb Even to the last--one effort more To attest my Faith, if not restore.

"'Hear then,' said he, 'while I impart, My Son, the last wish of my heart. 125 The Banner strive thou to regain; And, if the endeavour prove not[145] vain, Bear it--to whom if not to thee Shall I this lonely thought consign?-- Bear it to Bolton Priory, 130 And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine; To wither in the sun and breeze 'Mid those decaying sanctities. There let at least the gift be laid, The testimony there displayed; 135 Bold proof that with no selfish aim, But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name, I helmeted a brow though white, And took a place in all men's sight; Yea offered up this noble[146] Brood, 140 This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 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: 145 Now promise, grant this one request, This dying prayer, and be thou blest!'

"Then Francis answered--'Trust thy Son, For, with God's will, it shall be done!'--[147]

"The pledge obtained, the solemn word[148] 150 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? 155 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, 160 One with profane and harsh intent Placed there--that he might go before And, with that rueful Banner borne Aloft in sign of taunting scorn,[149] Conduct them to their punishment: 165 So cruel Sussex, unrestrained By human feeling, had ordained. The unhappy Banner Francis saw, And, with a look of calm command Inspiring universal awe, 170 He took it from the soldier's hand; And all the people that stood round[150] Confirmed the deed in peace profound. --High transport did the Father shed Upon his Son--and they were led, 175 Led on, and yielded up their breath; Together died, a happy death!-- But Francis, soon as he had braved That insult, and the Banner saved, Athwart the unresisting tide[151] 180 Of the spectators occupied In admiration or dismay, Bore instantly[152] his Charge away."

These things, which thus had in the sight And hearing passed of Him who stood 185 With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood, He told; and oftentimes with voice Of power to comfort[153] or rejoice; For deepest sorrows that aspire, 190 Go high, no transport ever higher. "Yes--God is rich in mercy," said The old Man to the silent Maid, "Yet, Lady! shines, through this black night, One star of aspect heavenly bright;[154] 195 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, 200 To Rylstone-hall her way she took.

CANTO SIXTH

Why comes not Francis?--From the doleful City He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:[155] That sullen stroke pronounced farewell To Marmaduke, cut off from pity! 5 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 10 With the fleet motion of a dove;[156] Yea, like a heavenly messenger Of speediest wing, should he appear.[157] Why comes he not?--for westward fast Along the plain of York he past; 15 Reckless of what impels or leads, Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds The sorrow, through the Villages, Spread by triumphant cruelties[158] Of vengeful military force, 20 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:[159] 25 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.

He looked about like one betrayed: 30 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, 35 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, 40 The unoffending Emily, Again this piteous object see?

Such conflict long did he maintain, Nor liberty nor rest could gain:[160] His own life into danger brought 45 By this sad burden--even that thought, Exciting self-suspicion strong, Swayed the brave man to his wrong.[161] And how--unless it were the sense Of all-disposing Providence, 50 Its will unquestionably shown-- How has the Banner clung so fast To a palsied, and unconscious hand; Clung to the hand to which it passed Without impediment? And why 55 But that Heaven's purpose might be known, Doth now no hindrance meet his eye, No intervention, to withstand Fulfilment of a Father's prayer Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 60 When all resentments were at rest, And life in death laid the heart bare?-- Then, like a spectre sweeping by, Rushed through his mind the prophecy Of utter desolation made 65 To Emily in the yew-tree shade: He sighed, submitting will and power To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.[162] "No choice is left, the deed is mine-- Dead are they, dead!--and I will go, 70 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 hill; And up the vale of Wharf his way 75 Pursued;--and, at the dawn of day, Attained a summit whence his eyes[163] Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. There Francis for a moment's space Made halt--but hark! a noise behind 80 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 85 Of death had drunk their punishment, Bethought him, angry and ashamed, How Francis, with the Banner claimed As his own charge, had disappeared,[164] By all the standers-by revered. 90 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) 95 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 height Where Francis stood in open sight. 100 They hem him round--"Behold the proof," They cried, "the Ensign in his hand![165] _He_ did not arm, he walked aloof! For why?--to save his Father's land;-- Worst Traitor of them all is he, 105 A Traitor dark and cowardly!"

"I am no Traitor," Francis said, "Though this unhappy freight I bear; And must not part with. But beware;-- Err not, by hasty zeal misled,[166] 110 Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong, Whose self-reproaches are too strong!" At this he from the beaten road Retreated towards a brake of thorn, That[167] like a place of vantage showed; 115 And there stood bravely, though forlorn. In self-defence with warlike brow[168] He stood,--nor weaponless was now; He from a Soldier's hand had snatched A spear,--and, so protected, watched 120 The Assailants, turning round and round; But from behind with treacherous wound A Spearman brought him to the ground. The guardian lance, as Francis fell, Dropped from him; but his other hand 125 The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band, One, the most eager for the prize, Rushed in; and--while, O grief to tell! A glimmering sense still left, with eyes Unclosed the noble Francis lay-- 130 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![169] 135

Proudly the Horsemen bore away The Standard; and where Francis lay[170] There was he left alone, unwept, And for two days unnoticed slept. For at that time bewildering fear 140 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, 145 And to the nearest homesteads ran And called the people to the place. --How desolate is Rylstone-hall! This was the instant thought of all; And if the lonely Lady there 150 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 155 And no one hinder their intent,[171] Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, In holy ground a grave would make; And straightway[172] buried he should be In the Church-yard of the Priory. 160

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; 165 And that there was no neighbourhood Of kindred for him in that ground: So to the Church-yard they are bound, Bearing the body on a bier; And psalms they sing--a holy sound 170 That hill and vale with sadness hear.[173]

But Emily hath raised her head, And is again disquieted; She must behold!--so many gone, Where is the solitary One? 175 And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she, To seek her Brother forth she went, And tremblingly her course she bent Toward[174] Bolton's ruined Priory. She comes, and in the vale hath heard 180 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,-- 185 The consummation, the whole ruth And sorrow of this final truth!

CANTO SEVENTH

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

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 5 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-- 10 Is that the Sufferer's last retreat? Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds Its perilous front in mists and clouds? High-climbing rock, low[175] sunless dale, Sea, desert, what do these avail? 15 Oh take her anguish and her fears Into a deep[176] recess of years!

'Tis done;--despoil and desolation O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;[PP] Pools, terraces, and walks are sown[177] 20 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 25 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[178] a joyless human Being, 30 Of aspect such as if the waste Were under her dominion placed. Upon a primrose bank, her throne Of quietness, she sits alone; [179]Among the ruins of a wood, 35 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, 40 Neglecting in imperial state These outward images of fate, And carrying inward a serene And perfect sway, through many a thought Of chance and change, that hath been brought 45 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 50 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: 55 Such is her sovereign mien:--her dress (A vest with woollen cincture tied, A hood of mountain-wool undyed) Is homely,--fashioned to express A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 60

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 65 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; 70 The mighty sorrow hath[180] 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 75 The infirmities of mortal love; Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, And awfully impenetrable.

And so--beneath a mouldered tree, A self-surviving leafless oak 80 By unregarded age from stroke Of ravage saved--sate Emily. There did she rest, with head reclined, Herself most like a stately flower, (Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 85 Hath separated from its kind, To live and die in a shady bower, Single on the gladsome earth.

When, with a noise like distant thunder, A troop of deer came sweeping by; 90 And, suddenly, behold a wonder! For One, among those rushing deer,[181] A single One, in mid career Hath stopped, and fixed her[182] large full eye Upon the Lady Emily; 95 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, 100 Drew softly near her, and more near-- Looked round--but saw no cause for fear; So to her feet the Creature came,[183] And laid its head upon her knee, And looked into the Lady's face, 105 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, 110 And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, She melted into tears-- A flood of tears, that flowed apace, Upon the happy Creature's face.

Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair 115 Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen[184] care, This was for you a precious greeting; And may it prove a fruitful meeting![185] Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe Can she depart? can she forego 120 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? 125 Lone Sufferer! will not she believe The promise in that speaking face; And welcome, as a gift of grace,[186] The saddest thought the Creature brings?[187]

That day, the first of a re-union 130 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[188] sylvan haunt withdrew, 135 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 140 Once owned her Father for his Lord; A hut, by tufted trees defended, Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.[QQ]

When Emily by morning light Went forth, the Doe stood there[189] in sight. 145 She shrunk:--with one frail shock of pain Received and followed by a prayer, She saw the Creature once again;[190] Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;-- But, wheresoever she looked round, 150 All now was trouble-haunted ground; And therefore now she deems it good Once more this restless neighbourhood[191] To leave. Unwooed, yet unforbidden, The White Doe followed up the vale, 155 Up to another cottage, hidden In the deep fork of Amerdale;[RR] And there may Emily restore Herself, in spots unseen before. --Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 160 By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,[SS] 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-- 165 Endless history that lies In her silent Follower's eyes; Who with a power like human reason Discerns the favourable season, Skilled to approach or to retire,-- 170 From looks conceiving her desire; From look, deportment, voice, or mien, That vary to the heart within. If she too passionately wreathed[192] Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, 175 Walked quick or slowly, every mood In its degree was understood; Then well may their accord be true, And kindliest[193] intercourse ensue. --Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing 180 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! 185 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, 190 White as whitest[194] cloud on high Floating through the[195] azure sky. --What now is left for pain or fear? That Presence, dearer and more dear, While they, side by side, were straying, 195 And the shepherd's pipe was playing, Did now a very gladness yield At morning to the dewy field,[196] And with a deeper peace endued The hour of moonlight solitude. 200

With her Companion, in such frame Of mind, to Rylstone back she came; And, ranging[197] through the wasted groves, Received the memory of old loves, Undisturbed and undistrest, 205 Into a soul which now was blest With a soft spring-day of holy, Mild, and grateful, melancholy:[198] Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, But by tender fancies brightened. 210

When the bells of Rylstone played Their sabbath music--"=God us ayde!="[TT] That was the sound they seemed to speak; Inscriptive legend which I ween May on those holy bells be seen, 215 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, 220 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 225 Their part in this effectual prayer.

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;[199] Behold the prophecy fulfilled, Fulfilled, and she sustains her part! But here her Brother's words have failed; 235 Here hath a milder doom prevailed; That she, of him and all bereft, Hath yet this faithful Partner left; This one Associate[200] that disproves His words, remains for her, and loves. 240 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 245 For this her last and living Friend.

Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, And bless for both this savage spot; Which Emily doth sacred hold For reasons dear and manifold-- 250 Here hath she, here before her sight, Close to the summit of this height, The grassy rock-encircled Pound[UU] In which the Creature first was found. So beautiful the timid Thrall 255 (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![201] 260

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[202] 265 To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;[VV] 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:[203] 270 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; 275 How happy in its[204] turn to meet The[205] recognition! the mild glance Beamed from that gracious countenance; Communication, like the ray Of a new morning, to the nature 280 And prospects of the inferior Creature!

A mortal Song we sing,[206] by dower Encouraged of celestial power; Power which the viewless Spirit shed By whom we were first visited; 285 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, 290 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; 295 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, 300 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; 305 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, 310 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. 315 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. 320

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, 325 Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace; And bears a memory and a mind Raised far above the law of kind;[WW] Haunting the spots with lonely cheer Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 330 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 335 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, 340 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 345 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. 350 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, 355 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!" 360

The following is the full text of the first "note" to _The White Doe of Rylstone_, published in the quarto edition of 1815. The other notes to that edition are printed in this, at the foot of the pages where they occur:--

"The Poem of _The White Doe of Rylstone_ is founded on a local tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled _The Rising of the North_. The tradition is as follows: 'About this time,' not long after the Dissolution, 'a White Doe, say the aged people of the neighbourhood, long continued to make a weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey Church-yard during divine service; after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the rest of the congregation.'--Dr. WHITAKER'S _History of the Deanery of Craven_.--Rylstone was the property and residence of the Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised and unfortunate Insurrection, which led me to connect with this tradition the principal circumstances of their fate, as recorded in the Ballad which I have thought it proper to annex.

_The Rising in the North._

"The subject of this ballad is the great Northern Insurrection in the 12th year of Elizabeth, 1569, which proved so fatal to Thomas Percy, the seventh Earl of Northumberland.

"There had not long before been a secret negociation entered into between some of the Scottish and English nobility, to bring about a marriage between Mary Q. of Scots, at that time a prisoner in England, and the Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman of excellent character. This match was proposed to all the most considerable of the English nobility, and among the rest to the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, two noblemen very powerful in the North. As it seemed to promise a speedy and safe conclusion of the troubles in Scotland, with many advantages to the crown of England, they all consented to it, provided it should prove agreeable to Queen Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester (Elizabeth's favourite) undertook to break the matter to her, but before he could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. The Duke of Norfolk, with several of his friends, was committed to the Tower, and summons were sent to the Northern Earls instantly to make their appearance at court. It is said that the Earl of Northumberland, who was a man of a mild and gentle nature,[XX] was deliberating with himself whether he should not obey the message, and rely upon the Queen's candour and clemency, when he was forced into desperate measures by a sudden report at midnight, Nov. 14, that a party of his enemies were come to seize his person. The Earl was then at his house at Topcliffe in Yorkshire. When, rising hastily out of bed, he withdrew to the Earl of Westmoreland at Brancepeth, where the country came in to them, and pressed them to take up arms in their own defence. They accordingly set up their standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient Religion, to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, etc. Their common banner (on which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of Christ) was borne by an ancient gentleman, Richard Norton, Esquire, who, with his sons (among whom, Christopher, Marmaduke, and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden), distinguished himself on this occasion. Having entered Durham, they tore the Bible, etc., and caused mass to be said there; they then marched on to Clifford-moor near Wetherby, where they mustered their men.... The two Earls, who spent their large estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that account, were masters of little ready money; the E. of Northumberland bringing with him only 8000 crowns, and the E. of Westmoreland nothing at all, for the subsistence of their forces, they were not able to march to London, as they had at first intended. In these circumstances, Westmoreland began so visibly to despond, that many of his men slunk away, though Northumberland still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till December 13, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord Hunsden and others, having marched out of York at the head of a large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army under the command of Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, the insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there dismissing their followers, made their escape into Scotland. Though this insurrection had been suppressed with so little bloodshed, the Earl of Sussex and Sir George Bowes, marshal of the army, put vast numbers to death by martial law, without any regular trial. The former of these caused at Durham sixty-three constables to be hanged at once. And the latter made his boast, that for sixty miles in length, and forty in breadth, betwixt Newcastle and Wetherby, there was hardly a town or village wherein he had not executed some of the inhabitants. This exceeds the cruelties practised in the West after Monmouth's rebellion.

"Such is the account collected from Stow, Speed, Camden, Guthrie, Carte, and Rapin; it agrees, in most particulars, with the following Ballad, apparently the production of some northern minstrel.--

"Listen, lively lordings all, Lithe and listen unto mee, And I will sing of a noble earle, The noblest earle in the north countrie.

Earle Percy is into his garden gone, And after him walks his fair leddie: I heard a bird sing in mine ear, That I must either fight, or flee.

Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord, That ever such harm should hap to thee: But goe to London to the court, And fair fall truth and honestie.

Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay, Alas! thy counsell suits not mee; Mine enemies prevail so fast, That at the court I may not bee.

O goe to the court yet, good my lord, And take thy gallant men with thee; If any dare to do you wrong, Then your warrant they may bee.

Now nay, now nay, thou ladye faire, The court is full of subtiltie: And if I goe to the court, ladye, Never more I may thee see.

Yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes, And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee: At court then for my dearest lord, His faithful borrowe I will bee.

Now nay, now nay, my ladye deare; Far lever had I lose my life, Than leave among my cruell foes My love in jeopardy and strife.

But come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come thou hither unto mee, To Maister Norton thou must goe In all the haste that ever may bee.

Commend me to that gentleman, And beare this letter here fro mee; And say that earnestly I praye, He will ryde in my companie.

One while the little foot-page went, And another while he ran; Untill he came to his journey's end, The little foot-page never blan.

When to that gentleman he came, Down he kneeled on his knee; And took the letter betwixt his hands, And lett the gentleman it see.

And when the letter it was redd, Affore that goodlye companie, I wis if you the truthe wold know, There was many a weeping eye.

He sayd, Come thither, Christopher Norton, A gallant youth thou seem'st to bee; What dost thou counsell me, my sonne, Now that good earle's in jeopardy?

Father, my counselle's fair and free; That erle he is a noble lord, And whatsoever to him you hight, I would not have you breake your word.

Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne, Thy counsell well it liketh mee, And if we speed and 'scape with life, Well advanced shalt thou bee.

Come you hither, my nine good sonnes, Gallant men I trowe you bee: How many of you, my children deare, Will stand by that good erle and mee?

Eight of them did answer make, Eight of them spake hastilie, O Father, till the day we dye We'll stand by that good erle and thee.

Gramercy, now, my children deare, You shew yourselves right bold and brave, And whethersoe'er I live or dye, A father's blessing you shall have.

But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton, Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire: Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast; Whatever it bee, to mee declare.

Father, you are an aged man, Your head is white, your beard is gray; It were a shame at these your years For you to ryse in such a fray.

Now fye upon thee, coward Francis, Thou never learned'st this of mee; When thou wert young and tender of age, Why did I make soe much of thee?

But, father, I will wend with you, Unarm'd and naked will I bee; And he that strikes against the crowne, Ever an ill death may he dee.

Then rose that reverend gentleman, And with him came a goodlye band To join with the brave Earle Percy, And all the flower o' Northumberland.

With them the noble Nevill came, The erle of Westmoreland was hee; At Wetherbye they mustered their host, Thirteen thousand fair to see.

Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde, The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye, And three Dogs with golden collars Were there set out most royallye.

Erle Percy there his ancyent spread, The Halfe Moone shining all soe faire; The Nortons ancyent had the Crosse, And the five wounds our Lord did beare.

Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose, After them some spoile to make: Those noble erles turned back againe, And aye they vowed that knight to take.

That baron he to his castle fled, To Barnard castle then fled hee. The uttermost walles were eathe to win. The earles have wonne them presentlie.

The uttermost walles were lime and bricke; But though they won them soon anone, Long ere they wan their innermost walles, For they were cut in rocke and stone.

Then news unto leeve London came In all the speed that ever might bee, And word is brought to our royall queene Of the rysing in the North countrie.

Her grace she turned her round about, And like a royall queene shee swore, I will ordayne them such a breakfast, As never was in the North before.

Shee caused thirty thousand men be rays'd, With horse and harneis faire to see; She caused thirty thousand men be raised To take the earles i' th' North countrie.

Wi' them the false Erle Warwicke went, The Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden, Untill they to York castle came I wiss they never stint ne blan.

Now spred thy ancyent, Westmoreland, Thy dun Bull faine would we spye: And thou, the Erle of Northumberland, Now rayse thy Halfe Moone on hye.

But the dun bulle is fled and gone, And the halfe moone vanished away: The Erles, though they were brave and bold, Against soe many could not stay.

Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, They doomed to dye, alas! for ruth! Thy reverend lockes thee could not save, Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.

Wi' them full many a gallant wight They cruellye bereav'd of life: And many a child made fatherlesse, And widowed many a tender wife.

"'Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent book--_The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven_--'stands upon a beautiful curvature of the Wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated to protect it from inundations, and low enough for every purpose of picturesque effect.

"'Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, the river washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicular, and of the richest purple, where several of the mineral beds, which break out, instead of maintaining their usual inclination to the horizon, are twisted by some inconceivable process, into undulating and spiral lines. To the South all is soft and delicious; the eye reposes upon a few rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river, sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and the bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude, even in winter, any portion of his rays.

"'But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the North. Whatever the most fastidious taste could require to constitute a perfect landscape is not only found here, but in its proper place. In front, and immediately under the eye, is a smooth expanse of park-like enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, etc. of the finest growth: on the right a skirting oak wood, with jutting points of grey rock; on the left a rising copse. Still forward are seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries; and farther yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon-seat and Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of the valley below.

"'About half a mile above Bolton the Valley closes, and either side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn woods, from which huge perpendicular masses of grey rock jut out at intervals.

"'This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of late, that ridings have been cut on both sides of the River, and the most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the woods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and bursts through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the Wharf: there the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and next becomes a horned flood enclosing a woody island--sometimes it reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native character, lively, irregular, and impetuous.

"'The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous STRID. This chasm, being incapable of receiving the winter floods, has formed, on either side, a broad strand of naked gritstone full of rock-basons, or "pots of the Linn," which bear witness to the restless impetuosity of so many Northern torrents. But, if here Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its deep and solemn roar, like "the Voice of the angry Spirit of the Waters," heard far above and beneath, amidst the silence of the surrounding woods.

"'The terminating object of the landscape is the remains of Barden Tower, interesting from their form and situation, and still more so from the recollections which they excite.'"

* * * * *

_The White Doe of Rylstone_ has been assigned chronologically to the year 1808; although part of it--probably the larger half--was written during the autumn of the previous year, and it remained unfinished in 1810, while the Dedication was not written till 1815. In the Fenwick note, Wordsworth tells us that the "earlier half" was written at Stockton-on-Tees "at the close" of 1807, and "proceeded with" at Dove Cottage, after his return to Grasmere, which was in April 1808. But on the 28th February, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth, writing from Allan Bank to Lady Beaumont, says, "Before my brother turns to any other labour, I hope he will have finished three books of _The Recluse_. He seldom writes less than 50 lines every day. After this task is finished he hopes to complete _The White Doe_, and proud should we all be if it should be honoured by a frontispiece from the pencil of Sir George Beaumont. Perhaps this is not impossible, if you come into the north next summer."

A frontispiece was drawn by Sir George Beaumont for the quarto edition of 1815.

When part of the poem was finished, Wordsworth showed it to Southey; and Southey, writing to Walter Scott, in February 1808, said,--

"Wordsworth has just completed a most masterly poem upon the fate of the Nortons; two or three lines in the old ballad of _The Rising of the North_ gave him the hint. The story affected me more deeply than I wish to be affected; younger readers, however, will not object to the depth of the distress, and nothing was ever more ably treated. He is looking, too, for a narrative subject, pitched in a lower key."

One of the most interesting letters of S. T. Coleridge to Wordsworth is an undated one, sent from London in the spring of 1808, containing a characteristic criticism of _The White Doe_. The Wordsworth family had asked Coleridge to discuss the subject of the publication of the poem with the Longmans' firm. It is more than probable that it was Coleridge's criticism of the structural defects in the poem, that led Wordsworth to postpone its publication. The following is part of the letter:--

"... In my reperusals of the poem, it seemed always to strike on my feeling as well as judgment, that if there were any serious defect, it consisted in a disproportion of the Accidents to the spiritual Incidents; and, closely connected with this,--if it be not indeed the same,--that Emily is indeed talked of, and once appears, but neither speaks nor acts, in all the first three-fourths of the poem. Then, as the outward interest of the poem is in favour of the old man's religious feelings, and the filial heroism of his band of sons, it seemed to require something in order to place the two protestant malcontents of the family in a light that made them beautiful as well as virtuous. In short, to express it far more strongly than I mean or think, in order (in the present anguish of my spirits) to be able to express it at all, that three-fourths of the work is everything rather _than_ Emily; and then, the last--almost a separate and doubtless an exquisite poem--wholly _of_ Emily. The whole of the rest, and the delivering up of the family by Francis, I never ceased to find, not only comparatively heavy, but to me quite obscure as to Francis's motives. On the few, to whom, within my acquaintance, the poem has been read, either by yourself or me (I have, I believe, read it only at the Beaumonts'), it produced the same effect.

"Now I have conceived two little incidents, the introduction of which, joined to a little abridgment, and lyrical precipitation of the last half of the third, I had thought would have removed this defect, so seeming to me, and bring to a finer balance the _business_ with the _action_ of the tale. But after my receipt of your letter, concerning Lamb's censures, I felt my courage fail, and that what I deemed a harmonizing would disgust you as a _materialization_ of the plan, and appear to you like insensibility to the power of the history in the mind. Not that I should have shrunk back from the mere fear of giving transient pain, and a temporary offence, from the want of sympathy of feeling and coincidence of opinions. I rather envy than blame that deep interest in a production, which is inevitable perhaps, and certainly not dishonourable to such as feel poetry their calling and their duty, and which no man would find much fault with if the object, instead of a poem, were a large estate or a title. It appears to me to become a foible only when the poet denies, or is unconscious of its existence, but I did not deem myself in such a state of mind as to entitle me to rely on my own opinion when opposed to yours, from the heat and bustle of these disgusting lectures."

. . . . .

"From most of these causes I was suffering, so as not to allow me any rational confidence in my opinions when contrary to yours, which had been formed in calmness and on long reflection. Then I received your sister's letter, stating the wish that I would give up the thought of proposing the means of correction, and merely point out the things to be corrected, which--as they could be of no great consequence--you might do in a day or two, and the publication of the poem--for the immediacy of which she expressed great anxiety--be no longer retarded. The merely verbal _alteranda_ did appear to me very few and trifling. From your letter on L----, I concluded that you would not have the incidents and action interfered with, and therefore I sent it off; but soon retracted it, in order to note down the single words and phrases that I disliked in the books, after the two first, as there would be time to receive your opinion of them during the printing of the two first, in which I saw nothing amiss, except the one passage we altered together, and the two lines which I scratched out, because you yourself were doubtful. Mrs. Shepherd told me that she had felt them exactly as I did--namely, as interrupting the spirit of the continuous tranquil motion of _The White Doe_."

It will be seen from this letter that Wordsworth had gone over the poem with Coleridge, and that they had altered some passages "together"; that Coleridge had read a copy of it sent to the Beaumonts, doubtless at Dunmow in Essex; that he had thought of a plan by which the poem could be immensely improved, both by addition and subtraction; but that hearing from Wordsworth, or more probably from his sister Dorothy, that Charles Lamb had also criticised its structure, he gave up his intention of sending to his friend suggestions, which evidently implied a radical alteration of "the incidents and action" of the tale. It would have been extremely interesting to know how the author of _Christabel_ and _The Ancient Mariner_ proposed to recast _The White Doe of Rylstone_. It is, alas! impossible for posterity to know this, although it is not difficult to conjecture the line which the alterations would take. Wordsworth's genius was not great in construction, as in imagination; and he valued a story only as giving him a "point of departure" for a flight of fancy or of idealization. Early in 1808 he wrote to Walter Scott asking him for facts about the Norton family. Scott supplied him with them, and the following was Wordsworth's reply.

"GRASMERE, May 14, 1808.

"MY DEAR SCOTT--Thank you for the interesting particulars about the Nortons. I like them much for their own sakes; but so far from being serviceable to my poem, they would stand in the way of it, as I have followed (as I was in duty bound to do) the traditionary and common historic account. Therefore I shall say, in this case, a plague upon your industrious antiquarians, that have put my fine story to confusion."

From the "advertisement" which Wordsworth prefixed to his edition of 1815, I infer that the larger part of the poem was written at Stockton. In it he says that "the Poem of _The White Doe_ was composed at the close of the year" (1807). This is an illustration of the vague manner in which he was in the habit of assigning dates. The Fenwick note, and the evidence of his sister's letter, is conclusive; although the fact that _The Force of Prayer_--written in 1807--is called in the Fenwick note "an appendage to _The White Doe_," is further confirmation of the belief that the principal part of the latter poem was finished in 1807. All things considered, _The White Doe of Rylstone_ may be most conveniently placed after the poems belonging to the year 1807, and before those known to have been written in 1808; while _The Force of Prayer_ naturally follows it.

The poem--first published in quarto in 1815--was scarcely altered in the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In 1837, however, it was revised throughout, and in that year the text was virtually settled; the subsequent changes being few and insignificant, while those introduced in 1837 were numerous and important. A glance at the foot-notes will show that many passages were entirely rewritten in that year, and that a good many lines of the earlier text were altogether omitted. All the poems were subjected to minute revision in 1836-37; but few, if any, were more thoroughly recast, and improved, in that year than _The White Doe of Rylstone_. As a sample of the best kind of changes--where a new thought was added to the earlier text with admirable felicity--compare the lines in canto vii., as it stood in 1815, when the Lady Emily first saw the White Doe at the old Hall of Rylstone, after her terrible losses and desolation--

Lone Sufferer! will not she believe The promise in that speaking face, And take this gift of Heaven with grace?

with the additional thought conveyed in the version of 1837--

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?

In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth--written by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge for the late Bishop of Lincoln's _Memoirs_ of his uncle--the following occurs. (See vol. ii. p. 311.) "His conversation was on critical subjects, arising out of his attempts to alter his poems. He said he considered _The White Doe_ as, in conception, the highest work he had ever produced. The mere physical action was all unsuccessful: but the true action of the poem was spiritual--the subduing of the will, and all inferior fancies, to the perfect purifying and spiritualizing of the intellectual nature; while the Doe, by connection with Emily, is raised as it were from its mere animal nature into something mysterious and saint-like. He said he should devote much labour to perfecting the execution of it in the mere business parts, in which, from anxiety 'to get on' with the more important parts, he was sensible that imperfections had crept in which gave the style a feebleness of character."

From this conversation--which took place in 1836--it will be seen that Wordsworth knew very well that there were feeble passages in the earlier editions; and that, in the thorough revision which he gave to all his poems in 1836-37, this one was specially singled out for "much labour." The result is seen by a glance at the changes of the text.

The notes appended by Wordsworth to the edition of 1815 explain some of the historical and topographical allusions in the poem. To these the following editorial notes may be added--

I. (See pp. 106, 107.)

_... Bolton's mouldering Priory._ ... _... the tower Is standing with a voice of power,_ ... _And in the shattered fabric's heart Remaineth one protected part; A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest._

In 1153, the canons of the Augustinian Priory at Embsay, near Skipton, were removed to Bolton, by William Fitz Duncan, and his wife, Cecilia de Romillé, who granted it by charter in exchange for the Manors of Skibdem and Stretton. The establishment at Bolton consisted of a prior and about 15 canons, over 200 persons (including servants and lay brethren) being supported at Bolton. During the Scottish raids of the fourteenth century, the prior and canons had frequently to retreat to Skipton for safety. In 1542 the site of the priory and demesnes were sold to Harry Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland. From the last Earl of Cumberland it passed to the second Earl of Cork, and then to the Devonshire family, to which it still belongs. The following is part of the excellent account of the Priory, given in Murray's _Yorkshire_:--

"The chief relic of the Priory is the church, the nave of which after the Dissolution was retained as the chapel of this so-called 'Saxon-Cure.' This nave remains perfect, but the rest of the church is in complete ruin. The lower walls of the choir are Trans-Norman, and must have been built immediately after (if not before) the removal from Embsay. The upper walls and windows (the tracery of which is destroyed) are decorated. The nave is early English, and decorated; and the original west front remains with an elaborate Perpendicular front of excellent design, intended as the base of a western tower, which was never finished.... The nave (which has been restored under the direction of Crace)--the

"'One protected part In the shattered fabric's heart,'

is Early English on the south side, and Decorated on the north.... At the end of the nave aisle, enclosed by a Perpendicular screen, is a chantry, founded by the Mauleverers; and below it is the vault, in which, according to tradition, the Claphams of Beamsley and their ancestors the Mauleverers were interred upright--

"'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.'

"Whitaker, however, could never see this 'griesly sight' through the chink in the floor; and it is perhaps altogether traditional. The ruined portion of the church is entirely Decorated, with the exception of the lower walls of the choir. The transepts had eastern aisles. The north transept is nearly perfect: the south retains only its western wall, in which are two decorated windows. The piers of a central tower remain; but at what period it was destroyed, or if it was ever completed, is uncertain. The choir is long and aisleless. Some fragments of tracery remain in the south window, which was a very fine one. Below the window runs a Transitional Norman arcade. Some portions of tomb-slabs remain in the choir.... The church-yard lies on the north side of the ruins. This has been made classic ground by Wordsworth's poem."

II. (See p. 118.)

_... the shy recess Of Barden's lowly quietness._

Compare the poem _The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of Bolton Priory_, p. 204. Whitaker writes thus of the district of Upper Wharfedale at Barden. "Grey tower-like projections of rock, stained with the various hues of lichens, and hung with loose and streaming canopies of ling, start out at intervals." Before the restoration of Henry Clifford, the Shepherd-lord, to the estates of his ancestors--on the accession of Henry VII.--there was only a keeper's lodge or tower at Barden, "one of six which existed in different parts of Barden Forest. The Shepherd-lord, whose early life among the Cumberland Fells led him to seek quiet and retirement after his restoration, preferred Barden to his greater castles, and enlarged (or rather rebuilt) it so as to provide accommodation for a moderate train of attendants."

III. (See p. 121.)

_It was the time when England's Queen Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;_ ... _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_, etc.

The circumstances which led to the Rising in the North, and the chief incidents of that unfortunate episode in English history, are traced in detail by Mr. Froude, in the fifty-third chapter of his _History of England_. They are also summarized, in a lecture on _The White Doe of Rylstone_, by the late Principal Shairp, in his _Aspects of Poetry_, from which the following passage is an extract (pp. 346-48).

"The incidents on which the _White Doe_ is founded belong to the year 1569, the twelfth of Queen Elizabeth.

"It is well known that as soon as Queen Mary of Scotland was imprisoned in England, she became the centre around which gathered all the intrigues which were then on foot, not only in England but throughout Catholic Europe, to dethrone the Protestant Queen Elizabeth. Abroad, the Catholic world was collecting all its strength to crush the heretical island. The bigot Pope, Pius V., with the dark intriguer, Philip II. of Spain, and the savage Duke of Alva, were ready to pour their forces on the shores of England.

"At home, a secret negotiation for a marriage between Queen Mary and the Duke of Norfolk had received the approval of many of the chief English nobles. The Queen discovered the plot, threw Norfolk and some of his friends into the Tower, and summoned Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, immediately to appear at court. These two earls were known to be holding secret communications with Mary, and longing to see the old faith restored.

"On receiving the summons, Northumberland at once withdrew to Brancepeth Castle, a stronghold of the Earl of Westmoreland. Straightway all their vassals rose, and gathered round the two great earls. The whole of the North was in arms. A proclamation went forth that they intended to restore the ancient religion, to settle the succession to the crown, and to prevent the destruction of the old nobility. As they marched forward they were joined by all the strength of the Yorkshire dales, and, among others, by a gentleman of ancient name, Richard Norton, accompanied by eight brave sons. He came bearing the common banner, called the Banner of the Five Wounds, because on it was displayed the Cross with the five wounds of our Lord. The insurgents entered Durham, tore the Bible, caused mass to be said in the cathedral, and then set forward as for York. Changing their purpose on the way, they turned aside to lay siege to Barnard Castle, which was held by Sir George Bowes for the Queen. While they lingered there for eleven days, Sussex marched against them from York, and the earls, losing heart, retired towards the Border, and disbanded their forces, which were left to the vengeance of the enemy, while they themselves sought refuge in Scotland. Northumberland, after a confinement of several years in Loch Leven Castle, was betrayed by the Scots to the English, and put to death. Westmoreland died an exile in Flanders, the last of the ancient house of the Nevilles, earls of Westmoreland. Norton, with his eight sons, fell into the hands of Sussex, and all suffered death at York. It is the fate of this ancient family on which Wordsworth's poem is founded."

This statement as to the fate of Norton's sons, however, is not borne out by the historians. Mr. Froude says (_History of England_, chap. 53), "Two sons of old Norton and two of his brothers, after long and close cross-questioning in the Tower, were tried and convicted at Westminster. Two of these Nortons were afterwards pardoned. Two, one of whom was Christopher, the poor youth who had been bewildered by the fair eyes of the Queen of Scots at Bolton, were put to death at Tyburn, with the usual cruelties."

IV. (See p. 127.)

_For we must fall, both we and ours-- This Mansion and these pleasant bowers, Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall-- Our fate is theirs, will reach them all._

Little now remains of Rylstone Hall but the site. "Some garden flowers still, as when Whitaker wrote, mark the site of the pleasaunce. The house fell into decay immediately after the attainder of the Nortons; and, with the estates here, remained in the hands of the Crown until the second year of James I., when they were granted to the Earl of Cumberland. Although Wordsworth makes the Nortons raise their famous banner here, they assembled their followers in fact at Ripon (November 18, 1569), but their Rylstone tenants rose with them."

V. (See p. 137.)

_Until Lord Dacre with his power From Naworth come; and Howard's aid Be with them openly displayed._

Naworth Castle, at the head of the vale of Llanercort, in the Gilsland district of Cumberland, was the seat of the Dacres from the reign of Edward III. George, Lord Dacre, the last heir-male of that family, was killed in 1559; and Lord William Howard (the third son of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk), who was made Warden of the Borders by Queen Elizabeth, and did much to introduce order and good government into the district, married the heiress of the Dacre family, and succeeded to the castle and estate of Naworth. The arms over the entrance of the castle are the Howard's and Dacre's quartered.

VI. (See p. 137.)

_... mitred Thurston--what a Host He conquered!..._ _... while to battle moved The Standard, on the Sacred Wain That bore it...._

The Battle of the Standard was fought in 1137.

"One gleam of national glory broke the darkness of the time. King David of Scotland stood first among the partizans of his kinswoman Matilda, and on the accession of Stephen his army crossed the border to enforce her claim. The pillage and cruelties of the wild tribes of Galloway and the Highlands roused the spirit of the north; baron and freeman gathered at York round Archbishop Thurstan, and marched to the field of Northallerton to await the foe. The sacred banners of St. Cuthbert of Durham, St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfrid of Ripon, hung from a pole fixed in a four-wheeled car, which stood in the centre of the host. 'I who wear no armour,' shouted the chief of the Galwegians, 'will go as far this day as any one with breastplate of mail;' his men charged with wild shouts of 'Albin, Albin,' and were followed by the Norman knighthood of the Lowlands. The rout, however, was complete; the fierce hordes dashed in vain against the close English ranks around the Standard, and the whole army fled in confusion to Carlisle." (J. R. Green's _Short History of the English People_, p. 99.)

VII. (See p. 153.)

_High on a point of rugged ground Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell Above the loftiest ridge or mound Where foresters or shepherds dwell, An edifice of warlike frame Stands single--Norton Tower its name-- It fronts all quarters, and looks round O'er path and road, and plain and dell, Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream Upon a prospect without bound._

"Some mounds near the tower are thought to have been used as butts for archers; and there are traces of a strong wall, running from the tower to the edge of a deep glen, whence a ditch runs to another ravine. This was once a pond, used by the Nortons for detaining the red deer within the township of Rylstone, which they asserted was not within the forest of Skipton, and consequently that the Cliffords had no right to hunt therein. The Cliffords eventually became lords of all the Norton lands here."

* * * * *

In January 1816, Wordsworth wrote thus to his friend Archdeacon Wrangham.

"Of _The White Doe_ I have little to say, but that I hope it will be acceptable to the intelligent, for whom alone it is written. It starts from a high point of imagination, and comes round, through various wanderings of that faculty, to a still higher--nothing less than the apotheosis of the animal who gives the first of the two titles to the poem. And as the poem thus begins and ends with pure and lofty imagination, every motive and impetus that actuates the persons introduced is from the same source; a kindred spirit pervades, and is intended to harmonise, the whole. Throughout objects (the banner, for instance) derive their influence, not from properties inherent in them, not from what they _are_ actually in themselves, but from such as are _bestowed_ upon them by the minds of those who are conversant with, or affected by, these objects. Thus the poetry, if there be any in the work, proceeds, as it ought to do, from the _soul of man_, communicating its creative energies to the images of the external world."

The following is from a letter to Southey in the same year:--"Do you know who reviewed _The White Doe_ in the 'Quarterly'? After having asserted that Mr. W. uses his words without any regard to their sense, the writer says that on no other principle can he explain that Emily is _always_ called 'the consecrated Emily.' Now, the name Emily occurs just fifteen times in the poem; and out of these fifteen, the epithet is attached to it _once_, and that for the express purpose of recalling the

## scene in which she had been consecrated by her brother's solemn

adjuration, that she would fulfil her destiny, and become a soul,

"'By force of sorrows high Uplifted to the purest sky Of undisturbed mortality.'

The point upon which the whole moral interest of the piece hinges, when that speech is closed, occurs in this line,--

"'He kissed the consecrated Maid;'

And to bring back this to the reader, I repeated the epithet."

In a letter to Wordsworth about _The Waggoner_, Charles Lamb wrote, June 7, 1819, "I re-read _The White Doe of Rylstone_; the title should be always written at length, as Mary Sabilla Novello, a very nice woman of our acquaintance, always signs hers at the bottom of the shortest note.... Manning had just sent it home, and it came as fresh to me as the immortal creature it speaks of. M. sent it home with a note, having this passage in it: 'I cannot help writing to you while I am reading Wordsworth's poem.... 'Tis broad, noble, poetical, with a masterly scanning of human actions, absolutely above common readers.'" (See _The Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. pp. 25, 26.)

Henry Crabb Robinson's judgment, as given in his _Diary_, June 1815, is interesting. (See vol. i. p. 484.)

The following is from Principal Shairp's estimate of _The White Doe of Rylstone_ in his Oxford Lectures, _Aspects of Poetry_ (chapter xii. pp. 373-76). "What is it that gives to it" (the poem) "its chief power and charm? Is it not the imaginative use which the poet has made of the White Doe? With her appearance the poem opens, with her re-appearance it closes. And the passages in which she is introduced are radiant with the purest light of poetry. A mere floating tradition she was, which the historian of Craven had preserved. How much does the poet bring out of how little! It was a high stroke of genius to seize on this slight traditionary incident, and make it the organ of so much. What were the objects which he had to describe and blend into one harmonious whole. They were these:

"1. The last expiring gleam of feudal chivalry, ending in the ruin of an ancient race, and the desolation of an ancestral home.

"2. The sole survivor, purified and exalted by the sufferings she had to undergo.

"3. The pathos of the decaying sanctities of Bolton, after wrong and outrage, abandoned to the healing of nature and time.

"4. Lastly, the beautiful scenery of pastoral Wharfdale, and of the fells around Bolton, which blend so well with these affecting memories.

"All these were before him--they had melted into his imagination, and waited to be woven into one harmonious creation. He takes the White Doe, and makes her the exponent, the symbol, the embodiment of them all. The one central aim--to represent the beatification of the heroine--how was this to be attained? Had it been a drama, the poet would have made the heroine give forth in speeches, her hidden mind and character. But this was a romantic narrative. Was the poet to make her soliloquise, analyse her own feelings, lay bare her heart in metaphysical monologue? This might have been done by some modern poets, but it was not Wordsworth's way of exhibiting character, reflective though he was. When he analyses feelings they are generally his own, not those of his characters. To shadow forth that which is invisible, the sanctity of Emily's chastened soul, he lays hold of this sensible image--a creature, the purest, most innocent, most beautiful in the whole realm of nature--and makes her the vehicle in which he embodies the saintliness which is a thing invisible. It is the hardest of all tasks to make spiritual things sensuous, without degrading them. I know not where this difficulty has been more happily met; for we are made to feel that, before the poem closes, the Doe has ceased to be a mere animal, or a physical creature at all, but in the light of the poet's imagination, has been transfigured into a heavenly apparition--a type of all that is pure, and affecting, and saintly. And not only the chastened soul of her mistress, but the beautiful Priory of Bolton, the whole Vale of Wharfe, and all the surrounding scenery, are illumined by the glory which she makes; her presence irradiates them all with a beauty and an interest more than the eye discovers. Seen through her as an imaginative transparency, they become spiritualized; in fact, she and they alike become the symbol and expression of the sentiment which pervades the poem--a sentiment broad and deep as the world. And yet, any one who visits these scenes, in a mellow autumnal day, will feel that she is no alien or adventitious image, imported by the caprice of the poet, but altogether native to the place, one which gathers up and concentrates all the undefined spirit and sentiment which lie spread around it. She both glorifies the scenery by her presence, and herself seems to be a natural growth of the scenery, so that it finds in her its most appropriate utterance. This power of imagination to divine and project the very corporeal image which suits and expresses the image of a scene, Wordsworth has many times shown....

"And so the poem has no definite end, but passes off, as it were, into the illimitable. It rises out of the perturbations of time and transitory things, and, passing upward itself, takes our thoughts with it to calm places and eternal sunshine."--ED.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... born of heavenly birth, 1815.

[2] 1837.

... which ... 1815.

[3] 1837.

... is ... 1815.

[4] 1820.

... of the crystal Wharf, 1815.

[5] 1837.

A rural Chapel, neatly drest, In covert like a little nest; 1815.

[6] 1837.

And faith and hope are in their prime, 1815.

[7]

And right across the verdant sod Towards the very house of God;

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[8] 1837.

A gift ... 1815.

[9] 1837.

Is through ... 1815.

[10] 1837.

... she no less To the open day gives blessedness. 1815.

[11] 1837.

... hand of healing,-- The altar, whence the cross was rent, Now rich with mossy ornament,-- The dormitory's length laid bare, Where the wild-rose blossoms fair; And sapling ash, whose place of birth Is that lordly chamber's hearth? 1815.

For altar, ... 1827.

Or dormitory's length ... 1827.

[12] 1837.

Methinks she passeth by the sight, 1815.

[13] 1827.

And in this way she fares, till at last 1815.

[14] 1845.

Gently ... 1815.

[15] 1837.

Like the river in its flowing; Can there be a softer sound? 1815.

[16] 1837.

--When now again the people rear A voice of praise, with awful chear! 1815.

[17] 1837.

Turn, with obeisance gladly paid, Towards the spot, where, full in view, The lovely Doe of whitest hue, 1815.

[18]

This whisper soft repeats what he Had known from early infancy.

In the editions of 1815 to 1832 the paragraph begins with these lines.

[19] 1837.

... is ... 1815.

[20] 1837.

Who in his youth had often fed 1815.

... hath ... 1827.

[21] 1837.

And lately hath brought home the scars Gathered in long and distant wars-- 1815.

[22] 1837.

... hath mounted ... 1815.

[23] 1837.

... when God's grace At length had in her heart found place, 1815.

[24] 1837.

Well may her thoughts be harsh; for she Numbers among her ancestry 1815.

[25] 1827.

... Cumbria's ... 1815.

[26] 1837.

... humble ... 1815.

[27] 1837.

... through strong desire Searching the earth with chemic fire: 1815.

[28] These two lines were added in the edition of 1837.

[29] 1837.

By busy dreams, and fancies wild; 1815.

[30] 1840.

Thou hast breeze-like visitings; For a Spirit with angel wings Hath touched thee, ... 1815.

A Spirit, with angelic wings, In soft and breeze-like visitings, Has touched thee-- ... 1837.

A Spirit, with his angelic wings, C.

[31] 1827.

... --'twas She who wrought 1815.

[32] 1837.

... the ... 1815.

[33] 1837.

... one that did fulfil 1815.

[34] 1837.

... (such was the command) 1815.

[35] 1845.

To be by force of arms renewed; Glad prospect for the multitude! 1815.

To be triumphantly restored; By the dread justice of the sword! 1820.

[36] 1827.

This ... 1815.

[37] 1827.

... blissful ... 1815.

[38] 1837.

Loud noise was in the crowded hall, 1815.

[39] 1837.

... which had a dying fall, 1815.

[40] 1837.

And on ... 1815.

[41] 1820.

... wet ... 1815.

[42] 1837.

Then seized the staff, and thus did say: 1815.

[43] 1837.

Forth when Sire and Sons appeared A gratulating shout was reared, With din ... 1815.

[44] 1837.

--A shout ... 1815.

[45] 1837.

And, when he waked at length, his eye 1815.

[46]

Oh! hide them from each other, hide, Kind Heaven, this pair severely tried!

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[47]

How could he chuse but shrink or sigh? He shrunk, and muttered inwardly,

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[48] 1837.

He paused, her silence to partake, And long it was before he spake: Then, all at once, his thoughts turned round, 1815.

[49] 1837.

... were beloved, 1815.

[50] This line was added in 1837.

[51] 1827.

Was He, ... 1815.

[52] 1820.

I, in the right ... 1815.

[53] 1827.

... to stand against ... 1815.

[54] 1837.

Thee, chiefly thee, ... 1815.

[55] 1837.

The last leaf which by heaven's decree Must hang upon a blasted tree; 1815.

[56] 1827.

... we have breathed ... 1815.

[57] 1837.

... he pursued, 1815.

[58] 1837.

Now joy for you and sudden chear, Ye Watchmen upon Brancepeth Towers; Looking forth in doubt and fear, 1815.

[59] 1837.

Forthwith the armed Company 1815.

[60] 1837.

... hail ... 1815.

[61] 1837.

... the mildest birth, 1815.

[62]

With tumult and indignant rout

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[63] 1827.

Came Foot and Horse-men of each degree, 1815.

[64] 1827.

And the Romish Priest, ... 1815.

[65] 1827.

But none for undisputed worth 1815.

[66] 1815.

Like those eight Sons--embosoming Determined thoughts--who, in a ring 1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

[67] This line was added in 1837.

[68] In youthful beauty flourishing,

Inserted in the editions of 1815 and 1820.

[69] 1837.

--With feet that firmly pressed the ground They stood, and girt their Father round; Such was his choice,--no Steed will he 1815.

[70] 1845.

He stood upon the verdant sod, 1815.

... grassy sod, 1820.

[71] 1837.

... higher ... 1815.

[72] 1827.

Rich ... 1815.

[73] 1837.

... --many see, ... 1815.

[74] 1837.

... these ... 1815.

[75] 1837.

... on ... 1815.

[76] 1837.

He takes this day ... 1815.

[77] 1837.

Stretched out upon the ground he lies,-- As if it were his only task Like Herdsman in the sun to bask, 1815.

[78] 1820.

That he ... 1815.

[79] 1837.

And Neville was opprest with fear; For, though he bore a valiant name, His heart was of a timid frame, 1815.

[80] 1837.

And therefore will retreat to seize 1815.

[81] 1837.

... comes; ... 1815.

[82] 1837.

... giving ... 1815.

[83] 1837.

--How often hath the strength of heaven 1815.

[84] 1837.

... on the sacred wain, On which the grey-haired Barons stood, And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood. Beneath the saintly Ensigns three, Their confidence and victory! 1815.

Stood confident of victory! 1820.

[85] 1837.

When, as the Vision gave command, The Prior of Durham with holy hand Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear Upon the point of a lofty spear, And God descended in his power, While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower. 1815.

[86] 1837.

... and uphold."-- --The Chiefs were by his zeal confounded, 1815.

[87] 1837.

... raised so joyfully, 1815.

[88] This line was added in 1837.

[89] 1837.

... frail ... 1815.

[90] 1827.

--So speaking, he upraised his head Towards that Imagery once more; 1815.

[91] 1827.

Blank fear, ... 1815.

[92] 1837.

She did in passiveness obey, 1815.

[93] 1837.

Her Brother was it who assailed Her tender spirit and prevailed. Her other Parent, too, whose head 1815.

[94] 1837.

From reason's earliest dawn beguiled The docile, unsuspecting Child: 1815.

[95] 1837.

... music sweet Was played to chear them in retreat; But Norton lingered in the rear: Thought followed thought--and ere the last Of that unhappy train was past, Before him Francis did appear. 1815.

[96] 1837.

"Now when 'tis not your aim to oppose," Said he, "in open field your Foes; Now that from this decisive day Your multitude must melt away, An unarmed Man may come unblamed; To ask a grace, that was not claimed Long as your hopes were high, he now May hither bring a fearless brow; When his discountenance can do No injury,--may come to you. Though in your cause no