Its will intelligibly shown,
Finds he the banner in his hand, Without a thought to such intent, Or conscious effort of his own; And no obstruction to prevent,
His Father's wish, and last command! And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh ; Remembering his own prophecy Of utter desolation, made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade: He sighed, submitting to the power, The might of that prophetic hour. "No choice is left, the deed is mine Dead are they, dead! — and I will go, And, for their sakes, come weal or woe, Will lay the Relic on the shrine."
So forward with a steady will He went, and traversed plain and hill; And up the vale of Wharf his way Pursued ; and, on the second day, He reached a summit whence his eyes Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. There Francis for a moment's space Made halt-but hark! a noise behind Of horsemen at an eager pace! He heard, and with misgiving mind.
'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand Of Death had drunk their punishment, Bethought him, angry and ashamed, How Francis had the Banner claimed,
And with that charge had disappeared; By all the standers-by revered.
His whole bold carriage (which had quelled Thus far the Opposer, and repelled
All censure, enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven Against that overcoming light)
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given, That to what place soever fled
He should be seized, alive or dead.
The troop of horse have gained the height Where Francis stood in open sight. They hem him round- "Behold the proof, Behold the Ensign in his hand!
He did not arm, he walked aloof!
to save his Father's Land; Worst Traitor of them all is he, A Traitor dark and cowardly!"
"I am no Traitor," Francis said, "Though this unhappy freight I bear; It weakens me, my heart hath bled
Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong, Whose self-reproaches are too strong!" At this he from the beaten road Retreated tow'rds a brake of thorn, Which like a place of 'vantage showed; And there stood bravely, though forlorn. In self-defence with warlike brow
nor weaponless was now; He from a Soldier's hand had snatched
Their motions, turning round and round: His weaker hand the Banner held; And straight, by savage zeal impelled, Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he, Not without harsh indignity, Would seize the same: instinctively - To smite the Offender - with his lance Did Francis from the brake advance; But, from behind, a treacherous wound Unfeeling, brought him to the ground, A mortal stroke: oh grief to tell! Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell: There did he lie of breath forsaken; The Banner from his grasp was taken, And borne exultingly away;
And the Body was left on the ground where it lay.
Two days, as many nights, he slept
Alone, unnoticed, and unwept;
For at that time distress and fear Possessed the Country far and near; The third day, One, who chanced to pass, Beheld him stretched upon the grass. A gentle Forester was he,
And of the Norton Tenantry; And he had heard that by a Train
Of Horsemen Francis had been slain. Much was he troubled for the Man
Hath recognised his pallid face; And to the nearest Huts he ran, And called the People to the place.
How desolate is Rylstone-hall! Such was the instant thought of all; And if the lonely Lady there Should be, this sight she cannot bear !
Such thought the Forester expressed; And all were swayed, and deemed it best That, if the Priest should yield assent And join himself to their intent, Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, In holy ground a grave would make; That straightway buried he should be In the Church-yard of the Priory.
Apart, some little space, was made The grave where Francis must be laid. In no confusion or neglect
but in pure respect That he was born of gentle Blood; 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
In decency and humble cheer;
And psalms are sung with holy sound.
But Emily hath raised her head, And is again disquieted;
She must behold!
Where is the solitary One?
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she, To seek her Brother forth she went, And tremblingly her course she bent Tow'rd Bolton's ruined Priory.
She comes, and in the Vale hath heard The Funeral dirge; - she sees the knot Of people, sees them in one spot And darting like a wounded Bird
She reached the grave, and with her breast Upon the ground received the rest, - The consummation, the whole ruth And sorrow of this final truth!
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 To hide her poor afflicted head? What mighty forest in its gloom Enfolds her? is a rifted tomb Within the wilderness her seat? Some island which the wild waves beat, Is that the Sufferer's last retreat? Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds Its perilous front in mists and clouds? High-climbing rock-low sunless dale Sea desert. what do these avail? Oh take her anguish and her fears Into a deep recess of years!
despoil and desolation O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown ; The walks and pools neglect hath sown With weeds; the bowers are overthrown, Or have given way to slow mutation, While, in their ancient habitation The Norton name hath been unknown.
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