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;
Till, in the bosom of our rustic cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That" bliss with mortal man may not
abide:"-

How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,
For us the voice of melody was mute.
But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,

• See Notes at end of poem, page 251.

| Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow

A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

It soothed us-it beguiled us--then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic
spell;
[near
And griefs whose aery motion comes not
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.

Then, too, this song of mine once more could please, [less sleep, Where anguish, strange as dreams of restIs tempered and allayed by sympathies Aloft ascending, and descending deep, Even to the inferior kinds; whom forest trees [sweep

Protect from beating sunbeams, and the Of the sharp winds;-fair creatures !—to whom Heaven

A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

of female patience winning firm repose; This tragic story cheered us: for it speaks And of the recompense which conscience seeks

Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest
A bright, encouraging example shows;
Needful amid life's ordinary woes;
breaks,
Hence, not for them unfitted who would

bless

A happy hour with holier happiness.

He serves the muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil
The comprehensive mandate which they
give-

Vain aspiration of an earnest will!
Yet in this moral strain a power may live,
Beloved wife! such solace to impart
As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.
Rydal Mount, Westmoreland,
April 20, 1815.

CANTO I.

It

"They that deny a God, destroy man's nobility; for certainly man is of kinn to the beasts by his body and if he be not of kinn to God by his spirit, he is a base ignoble creature. 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.

FROM Bolton's old monastic tower (2)
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun is bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharf,
Through the vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company!
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
To Bolton's mouldering Priory.

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 :
Its courts are ravaged; but the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,
That ancient voice which wont to call
To mass or some high festival;
And in the shattered fabric's heart
Remaineth one protected part;

A rural chapel, neatly drest, (3)
In covert like a little nest;
And thither old and young repair,
This Sabbath day, for praise and prayer.

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.(4)

And scarcely have they disappeared
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 sun-rise now of zeal,
And faith and hope are in their prime,
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,
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,
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;
And right across the verdant sod
Towards the very house of God ;-
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
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

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
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;
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,
From the bowers of earth below;
Or a spirit, for one day given,
A gift of grace from purest heaven.

What harmonious pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges
Round and through this pile of state,
Overthrown and desolate !
Now a step or two her way
Is through space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light
Brightens her that was so bright;
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath :
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
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 Fills many a damp obscure recess With lustre of a saintly show; And, re-appearing, she no less To the open day gives blessedness. 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 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;
For old magnificence undone ;
Or for the gentler work begun
By nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing,-
For altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament,
Or dormitory's length laid bare,
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;
And sapling ash, whose place of birth
Is that lordly chamber's hearth?
She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast:
Methinks she passeth by the sight,
As a common creature might:

If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere.

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
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
In quietness she lays her down;
Gently as a weary wave

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

The day is placid in its going, To a lingering motion bound, Like the river in its flowingCan there be a softer sound? So the balmy minutes pass, While this radiant creature lies Couched upon the dewy grass, Pensively with downcast eyes. When now again the people rear A voice of praise, with awful cheer! It is the last, the parting song; And from the temple forth they throngAnd quickly spread themselves abroadWhile each pursues his several road. But some, a variegated band, Of middle-aged, and old, and young, And little children by the hand Upon their leading mothers hung, Turn, with obeisance gladly paid, Towards the spot, where, full in view, The lovely doe of whitest hue, Her Sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound;

Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide:
As if in some respect of pride;

Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood;
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.

"Look, there she is, my child! draw near; She fears not, wherefore should we fear? She means no harm ;"-but still the boy, To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled and blushed for joy, A shame-faced blush of glowing red! Again the mother whispered low, "Now you have seen the famous doe; From Rylstone she hath found her way Over the hills this Sabbath-day; Her work, whate'er it be, is done, And she will depart when we are gone;

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
For other lore,-through strong desire
Searching the earth with chemic fire:
But they and their good works are fled-
And all is now disquieted-

And peace is none, for living or dead!

Ah, pensive scholar, think not so,
But look again at the radiant doe!
What quiet watch she seems to keep,
Alone, beside that grassy heap!

Why mention other thoughts unmeet
For vision so composed and sweet?
While stand the people in a ring,
Gazing, doubting, questioning;
Yea, many overcome in spite
Of recollections clear and bright;
Which yet do unto some impart
An undisturbed repose of heart,
And all the assembly own a law
Of orderly respect and awe;
But see-they vanish, one by one.
And last, the doe herself is gone.

Harp! we have been full long beguiled
By busy dreams, and fancies wild;
To which, with no reluctant strings,
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
And now before this pile we stand
In solitude, and utter peace;
But, harp thy murmurs may not cease--
Thou hast breeze-like visitings;
For a spirit with angel's wings

Hath touched thee, and a spirit's hand :
A voice is with us-a command

To chant, in strains of heavenly glory,
A tale of tears, a mortal story.

CANTO II.

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;
Her friend who stood before her sight,
Her only unextinguished light;
The last companion in a dearth
Of love, upon a hopeless earth.

For she was-this maid, who wrought
Meekly, with foreboding thought,
Ir vermeil colours and in gold

An unblest work; which, standing by,
Her father did with joy behold,-
Exulting in the imagery;

A banner, one that did fulfil
Too perfectly his headstrong will:
For on this banner had her hand
Embroidered (such was the command)
The sacred cross; and figured there
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
Full soon to be uplifted high,
And float in rueful company!

It was the time when England's queen Twelve years had reigned, a sovereign dread;

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
In Percy's and in Neville's right,
Two earls fast leagued in discontent,
Who gave their wishes open vent ;
And boldly urged a general plea,
The rites of ancient piety
To be triumphantly restored,
By the dread justice of the sword!
And that same banner, on whose breast
The blameless lady had exprest
Memorials chosen to give life
And sunshine to a dangerous strife;
That banner, waiting for the call,
Stood quietly in Rylstone Hall..

It came,-and Francis Norton said,
'O father! rise not in this fray-
The hairs are white upon your head ;
Dear father, hear me when I say
It is for you too late a day!

Bethink you of your own good name :
A just and gracious queen have we,
A pure religion, and the claim
Of peace on our humanity.

'Tis meet that I endure your scorn,

I am your son, your eldest born;
But not for lordship or for land,
My father, do I clasp your knees-
The banner touch not, stay your hand,—
This multitude of men disband,
And live at home in blameless ease;
For these my brethren's sake, for me ;
And, most of all, for Emily!"

Loud noise was in the crowded hall, And scarcely could the father hear That name--which had a dying fall, The name of his only daughter dear,—