Or, The Fate of the Nortons

Composed 1807-10.—Published 1815

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

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.

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!

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.

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

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 part I bear,
Your indignation I can share;
Am grieved this backward march to see,
How careless and disorderly!
I scorn your Chieftains, Men who lead,
And yet want courage at their need;
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?
My Father!..." 1815.

[97] 1837.

... remains ... 1815.

[98] 1837.

At length, the issue of this prayer?
Or how, from his depression raised,
The Father on his Son had gazed; 1815.

[99] 1845.

Suffice it that the Son gave way,
Nor strove that passion to allay, 1815.

[100] 1837.

The like endeavours 1815.

[101] 1837.

From cloudless ether looking down,
The Moon, this tranquil evening, sees 1815.

[102] 1837.

... with moors between,
Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green, 1815.

[103] 1827.

The silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths. 1815.

[104] 1827.

Had ... 1815.

[105] 1837.

The same fair Creature which was nigh
Feeding in tranquillity,
When Francis uttered to the Maid 1815.

... who was nigh 1820.

[106] Lines 40-43 were added in 1837.

[107] 1836.

But where at this still hour is she,
The consecrated Emily?
Even while I speak, behold the Maid
Emerging from the cedar shade 1815.

[108] In the editions of 1815 to 1832, the paragraph ends with this line. The remaining nine lines in these editions are added to the following paragraph.

[109] 1837.

Yet the meek Creature was not free,
Erewhile, from some perplexity:
For thrice hath she approached, this day,
The thought-bewildered Emily;
Endeavouring, in her gentle way,
Some smile or look of love to gain,—
Encouragement to sport or play;
Attempts which by the unhappy Maid
Have all been slighted or gainsaid. 1815.

[110] 1837.

—O welcome to the viewless breeze!
'Tis fraught with acceptable feeling,
And instantaneous sympathies
Into the Sufferer's bosom stealing;—
Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed 1815.

Yet is she soothed: the viewless breeze
Comes fraught with kindlier sympathies:
Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed 1827.

Ere she had reached ... 1832.

[111] 1837.

Revives ... 1815.

[112] 1837.

... —'tis that bless'd Saint 1815.

[113] 1837.

Thou Spirit ... 1815.

[114] 1837.

Descend on Francis:—through the air
Of this sad earth to him repair,
Speak to him with a voice, and say,
"That he must cast despair away!" 1815.

[115] Italics and capitals were first used in the edition of 1820.

[116] 1837.

—She knows, she feels it, and is cheared;
At least her present pangs are checked. 1815.

[117] 1837.

—And now an ancient Man appeared,
Approaching her with grave respect.
Down the smooth walk which then she trod
He paced along the silent sod,
And greeting her thus gently spake, 1815.

—But now ... 1827.

[118] 1837.

In friendship;—go—from him—from me—
Strive to avert this misery. 1815.

[119] 1837.

—If prudence offer help or aid,
On you is no restriction laid; 1815.

[120] 1837.

"Hope," said the Sufferer's zealous Friend,
"Must not forsake us till the end.— 1815.

[121] 1837.

... may have the skill ... 1815.

[122] 1837.

Their flight the fair Moon may not see;
For, from mid-heaven, already she 1815.

[123] 1837.

... haughty ... 1815.

[124] Italics were first used in 1837.

[125] 1837.

... to the cause. 1815.

[126] 1837.

They shout aloud—but Heaven decreed
Another close
To that brave deed
Which struck ... 1815.

[127] 1820.

... spreads ... 1815.

[128] 1820.

... and as seldom free 1815.

[129] 1820.

And from the heat of the noon-tide sun, 1815.

[130] 1837.

They to the Watch-tower did repair,
Commodious Pleasure-house! and there 1815.

[131] 1837.

He was the proudest ... 1815.

[132]

Dead are they, they were doomed to die;
The Sons and Father all are dead,
All dead save One; and Emily
No more shall seek this Watch-tower high,
To look far forth with anxious eye,—
She is relieved from hope and dread,
Though suffering in extremity.

Inserted only in the edition of 1815.

[133] Italics were first used in 1820.

[134] 1837. In the editions of 1815-32 the following passage took the place of this line:—

She turned to him, who with his eye
Was watching her while on the height
She sate, or wandered restlessly,
O'erburdened by her sorrow's weight;
To him who this dire news had told,
And now beside the Mourner stood;

[135] 1837.

Then on this place the Maid had sought:
And told, as gently as could be,
The end of that sad Tragedy, 1815.

[136] These two lines were added in 1827.

[137] 1827.

... the people cried, 1815.

[138] 1837.

For sake of ... 1815.

[139] 1837.

He rose not in this quarrel, he
His Father and his Brothers wooed,
Both for their own and Country's good,
To rest in peace—he did divide, 1815.

[140] 1820.

To scatter gleams ... 1815.

[141] 1837.

... of ancient love,
But most, compassion for your fate,
Lady! for your forlorn estate,
Me did these move, and I made bold,
And entrance gained to that strong-hold. 1815.

... of ancient love;
And, in your service, I made bold—
And entrance gained to that strong-hold. 1820.

[142] 1837.

... 'We need not stop, my Son!
But I will end what is begun;
'Tis matter which I do not fear
To entrust to any living ear.' 1815.

[143] 1820.

Had seen ... 1815.

[144] 1837.

Glad ... 1815.

[145] 1837.

... be not 1815.

[146] 1837.

... beauteous 1815.

[147] 1837.

Then Francis answered fervently,
"If God so will, the same shall be." 1815.

[148] 1837.

Immediately, this solemn word 1815.

[149] 1837.

... had reached the door,
The Banner which a Soldier bore,
One marshalled thus with base intent
That he in scorn might go before,
And, holding up this monument, 1815.

[150] 1837.

... that were round 1815.

[151] 1837.

This insult, and the Banner saved,
That moment, from among the tide 1815.

[152] 1837.

Bore unobserved ... 1815.

[153] 1820.

... to encourage ... 1815.

[154] 1837.

"Yet, yet in this affliction," said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
"Yet, Lady! heaven is good—the night
Shews yet a Star which is most bright; 1815.

[155] 1837.

Why comes not Francis?—Joyful chear
In that parental gratulation,
And glow of righteous indignation,
Went with him from the doleful City:—
He fled—yet in his flight could hear
The death-sound of the Minster-bell; 1815.

[156] 1837.

With motion fleet as winged Dove; 1815.

... as a wingèd Dove; 1832.

[157] 1837.

An Angel-guest, should he appear. 1815.

[158] 1837.

Along the plain of York he passed;
The Banner-staff was in his hand,
The Imagery concealed from sight,
And cross the expanse, in open flight,
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;—nor heeds
The sorrow of the Villages;
From the triumphant cruelties 1815.

Spread by triumphant cruelties 1827.

The sorrow through the Villages, 1832.

[159] 1827.

And punishment without remorse,
Unchecked he journies—under law
Of inward occupation strong;
And the first ... 1815.

[160] 1837.

... did he maintain
Within himself, and found no rest;
Calm liberty he could not gain;
And yet the service was unblest. 1815.

[161] 1820.

Raised self-suspicion which was strong,
Swaying the brave Man to his wrong: 1815.

[162] 1837.

Of all-disposing Providence,
Its will intelligibly shewn,
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. 1815.

[163] 1837.

... and, on the second day,
He reached a summit whence his eyes 1815.

[164] 1837.

How Francis had the Banner claimed,
And with that charge had disappeared; 1815.

[165] 1837.

Behold the Ensign in his hand! 1815.

[166] 1837.

... freight I bear;
It weakens me, my heart hath bled
Till it is weak—but you beware,
Nor do ... 1815.

[167] 1837.

Which ... 1815.

[168] 1820.

... with a Warrior's brow 1815.

[169] 1845.

... had snatched
A spear,—and with his eyes he watched
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. 1815.

But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged with searching overflow,
More deeply tinged the embroidered show
Of His whose side was pierced upon the Rood! 1837.

The text of 1837 is otherwise identical with the final version of 1845.

[170] These two lines were added in 1837.

[171] 1837.

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 recognized 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 express'd,
And all were swayed, and deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent
And join himself to their intent, 1815.

[172] 1837.

That straightway ... 1815.

[173] 1840.

... on a bier
In decency and humble chear;
And psalms are sung with holy sound. 1815.

And psalms they sung—a holy sound
That hill and vale with sadness hear. 1837.

[174] 1827.

Tow'rds ... 1815.

[175] 1820.

... deep ... 1815.

[176] 1820.

... calm ... 1815.

[177] 1845.

The walks and pools neglect hath sown 1815.

[178] 1837.

There is ... 1815.

[179]

There seated, may this Maid be seen,

Inserted in the editions of 1815-1832.

[180] 1827.

... has ... 1815.

[181] 1837.

For, of that band of rushing Deer, 1815.

[182] 1837.

... its ... 1815.

... his ... 1832.

[183] 1837.

... and more near,
Stopped once again;—but, as no trace
Was found of any thing to fear,
Even to her feet the Creature came, 1815.

[184] 1837.

... choicest ... 1815.

[185] 1837.

For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting. 1815.

[186] 1837.

And take this gift of Heaven with grace? 1815.

[187] This line was added in 1837.

[188] 1837.

... this ... 1815.

[189] 1837.

... was there ... 1815.

[190] 1837.

Did she behold—saw once again; 1815.

[191] 1837.

So doth the Sufferer deem it good
Even once again this neighbourhood 1815.

[192] 1827.

... writhed 1815.

[193] 1837.

... kindly ... 1815.

[194] 1827.

... as the whitest ... 1815.

[195] 1815.

... through an ... 1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

[196] 1837.

Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,
While they side by side were straying,
And the Shepherd's pipe was playing; 1815.

[197] 1837.

... wandering ... 1815.

[198] 1845.

Mild, delicious melancholy: 1815.

[199] 1837.

Up doth she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence looks round her far and wide.
Her fate there measures,—all is stilled,—
The feeble hath subdued her heart; 1815.

[200] 1837.

This single Creature ... 1815.

[201] 1837.

So beautiful the spotless Thrall,
(A lovely Youngling white as foam,)
That it was brought to Rylstone-hall;
Her youngest Brother led it home,
The youngest, then a lusty Boy,
Brought home the prize—and with what joy! 1815.

[202] 1827.

Nor did she fear in the still moonshine 1815.

... in still moonshine 1820.

[203] 1837.

For that she came; there oft and long
She sate in meditation strong: 1815.

[204] 1820.

... her ... 1815.

[205] 1837.

That ... 1815.

[206] 1837.

... we frame, ... 1815.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is the final form of the "Advertisement" to [The White Doe of Rylstone]. The variations from it, which occur in earlier editions, from 1815 onwards, need not be noted. The poem was placed in the 1820 edition in volume iii., in 1827 in volume iv., in 1832 in volume iii., and in 1836-37 and afterwards in volume iv. of the Collected Works.—Ed.

[B] I.e., in the small bower in the orchard of Dove Cottage, Grasmere.—Ed.

[C] Compare The Faërie Queene, book I. canto i. stanza iv. l. 9—

And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad.Ed.

[D] See The Faërie Queene, book I. canto viii. stanza xliv. l. 9—

That blisse may not abide in state of mortall men.Ed.

[E] The above extract, which, in 1837 and subsequent editions, follows the Dedication of the poem to Mrs. Wordsworth, is taken from the tragedy of The Borderers, act III. line 405 (vol. i. p. 187). In the prefatory note to The Borderers—published in 1842—Wordsworth says he would not have made use of these lines in [The White Doe of Rylstone] if he could have foreseen the time when he would be induced to publish the tragedy. It is signed M. S. in the 1837-43 editions.

In a note to the edition of 1837, he says, "'Action is transitory,' etc. This and the five lines that follow were either read or recited by me, more than thirty years since, to the late Mr. Hazlitt, who quoted some expressions in them (imperfectly remembered) in a work of his published several years ago."

In the quarto edition of 1815 the following lines precede the extract from Lord Bacon; and in the edition of 1820 they follow it. In 1827 they were transferred to the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."

"Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind;
Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
Heavy is woe;—and joy, for human kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"—
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty, assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:
'Tis her's to pluck the amaranthine Flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.Ed.

[F] See his Essays, XVI., "Of Atheism." Wordsworth's quotation is not quite accurate.—Ed.

[G] It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton Abbey wants this ornament: but the Poem, according to the imagination of the Poet, is composed in Queen Elizabeth's time. "Formerly," says Dr. Whitaker, "over the Transept was a tower. This is proved not only from the mention of bells at the Dissolution, when they could have had no other place, but from the pointed roof of the choir, which must have terminated westward, in some building of superior height to the ridge."—W. W. 1815.

[H] See note I. at the end of the poem, [p. 196].—Ed.

[I] See note I. at the end of the poem, [p. 196].—Ed.

[J] The Nave of the Church having been reserved at the Dissolution, for the use of the Saxon Cure, is still a parochial Chapel; and, at this day, is as well kept as the neatest English Cathedral.—W. W. 1815.

[K] "At a small distance from the great gateway stood the Prior's Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, and sold for 70l. According to the price of wood at that time, it could scarcely have contained less than 1400 feet of timber."—W. W. 1815.

This note is quoted from Whitaker.—Ed.

The place where this Oak tree grew is uncertain. Whitaker says it stood "at a small distance from the great gateway." This old entrance or gateway to the Abbey was through a part of the modern and now inhabited structure of Bolton Hall, under the Tower; and the old sexton at the Abbey told me that the tree stood near that gateway, at some distance from the ruins of the Abbey.—Ed.

[L] Of Wharfedale at Bolton, Henry Crabb Robinson says, in his Diary (September 1818), "This valley has been very little adorned, and it needs no other accident to grace it than sunshine."—Ed.

[M] Compare the lines in the sonnet At Furness Abbey (composed in 1844)—

A soothing spirit follows in the way
That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing.Ed.

[N] Roses still grow plentifully among the ruins, although they are not abundant in the district.—Ed.

[O] This is not topographical. No "warrior carved in stone" is now to be seen among the ruins of Bolton Abbey, whatever may have been the case in 1807; nor can Francis Norton's grave be discovered in the Abbey grounds.—Ed.

[P] The detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. Whitaker's book, and in the Poem, [The Force of Prayer], etc. [[p. 204]].—W. W. 1815.

[Q] Compare The Boy of Egremond, by Samuel Rogers.—Ed.

[R] "At the East end of the North aisle of Bolton Priory Church is a chantry belonging to Bethmesly Hall, and a vault, where, according to tradition, the Claphams" (who inherited this estate, by the female line from the Mauliverers) "were interred upright." John de Clapham, of whom this ferocious act is recorded, was a name of great note in his time; "he was a vehement partisan of the House of Lancaster, in whom the spirit of his chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive."—W. W. 1815.

This quotation is from Dr. Whitaker's History of the Deanery of Craven.—Ed.

[S] In 1868, when this chapel was under restoration, a vault was discovered at the eastern end of the north aisle, with evident signs of several bodies having been buried upright. On the site of this vault the organ is now placed. The chapel was restored by the late Duke of Devonshire.—Ed.

[T] In the second volume of Poems published by the author, will be found one, entitled, Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors. To that Poem is annexed an account of this personage [p. 89], chiefly extracted from Burn's and Nicholson's History of Cumberland and Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to add these further particulars concerning him from Dr. Whitaker, who says, "he retired to the solitude of Barden, where he seems to have enlarged the tower out of a common keeper's lodge, and where he found a retreat equally favourable to taste, to instruction, and to devotion. The narrow limits of his residence shew that he had learned to despise the pomp of greatness, and that a small train of servants could suffice him, who had lived to the age of thirty a servant himself. I think this nobleman resided here almost entirely when in Yorkshire, for all his charters which I have seen are dated at Barden.

"His early habits, and the want of those artificial measures of time which even shepherds now possess, had given him a turn for observing the motions of the heavenly bodies, and, having purchased such an apparatus as could then be procured, he amused and informed himself by those pursuits, with the aid of the Canons of Bolton, some of whom are said to have been well versed in what was then known of the science.

"I suspect this nobleman to have been sometimes occupied in a more visionary pursuit, and probably in the same company.

"For, from the family evidences, I have met with two MSS. on the subject of Alchemy, which, from the character, spelling, etc., may almost certainly be referred to the reign of Henry the Seventh. If these were originally deposited with the MSS. of the Cliffords, it might have been for the use of this nobleman. If they were brought from Bolton at the Dissolution, they must have been the work of those Canons whom he almost exclusively conversed with.

"In these peaceful employments Lord Clifford spent the whole reign of Henry the Seventh, and the first years of his son. But in the year 1513, when almost sixty years old, he was appointed to a principal command over the army which fought at Flodden, and shewed that the military genius of the family had neither been chilled in him by age, nor extinguished by habits of peace.

"He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died April 23d, 1523, aged about 70. I shall endeavour to appropriate to him a tomb, vault, and chantry, in the choir of the church of Bolton, as I should be sorry to believe that he was deposited when dead at a distance from the place which in his life-time he loved so well.

"By his last will he appointed his body to be interred at Shap if he died in Westmoreland; or at Bolton if he died in Yorkshire."

With respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. Whitaker shews from MSS. that not only alchemy but astronomy was a favourite pursuit with them.—W. W. 1815.

[U] Barden Tower is on the western bank of the Wharfe, fully two miles north-west of Bolton Priory, above the Strid. At the time of the restoration of the Shepherd-lord, Barden Tower was only a keeper's forest lodge. It is so hidden in trees, and so retired, that the situation is most accurately described as

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

[V] The year 1569.—Ed.

[W] Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland—the two peers who joined in support of the Duke of Norfolk's marriage with Queen Mary, with a view to the restoration of Catholicism in England. See note III. [p. 198].—Ed.

[X] Compare Twelfth Night, act I. scene i. l. 4—

That strain again! it had a dying fall.Ed.

[Y] See the Old Ballad,—The Rising of the North.—W. W. 1827.

This Ballad is printed in Wordsworth's note, [p. 186]. The reference here is to the lines—

But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee.Ed.

[Z] The site of Rylstone Hall is still recognisable, but the building is gone. It was not at Rylstone, but at Ripon, that the Nortons raised their banner in November 1569; but their tenantry at Rylstone rose with them at the same time.—Ed.

[AA] Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, a few miles from the city of Durham. It formerly belonged to the Nevilles, Earls of Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy's account.—W. W. 1815.

[BB] The tower of the Cathedral of Durham, of which St. Cuthbert is the patron saint.—Ed.

[CC] Now Raby Castle, a seat of the Duke of Cleveland in the county of Durham.—Ed.

[DD] From the old Ballad.—W. W. 1820.

The lines are—

At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
Thirteen thousand fair to see.Ed.

[EE] The village of Clifford is three miles from Wetherby, where the host was mustered.—Ed.

[FF] From the old Ballad.—W. W. 1820.

The line referred to is—

Against soe many could not stay.Ed.

[GG] See note V. [p. 200].—Ed.

[HH] See the Historians for the account of this memorable battle, usually denominated the Battle of the Standard.—W. W. 1815.

It was fought at Northallerton in 1137, under Archbishop Thurston of York. See note VI. [p. 200].—Ed.

[II] "In the night before the battle of Durham was strucken and begun, the 17th day of October, anno 1346, there did appear to John Fosser, then Prior of the abbey of Durham, a Vision, commanding him to take the holy Corporax-cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the chalice when he used to say mass, and to put the same holy relique like to a banner-cloth upon the point of a spear, and the next morning to go and repair to a place on the west side of the city of Durham, called the Red Hills, where the Maid's Bower wont to be, and there to remain and abide till the end of the battle. To which vision, the Prior obeying, and taking the same for a revelation of God's grace and mercy by the mediation of holy St. Cuthbert, did accordingly the next morning, with the monks of the said abbey, repair to the said Red Hills, and there most devoutly humbling and prostrating themselves in prayer for the victory in the said battle: (a great multitude of the Scots running and pressing by them, with intention to have spoiled them, yet had no power to commit any violence under such holy persons, so occupied in prayer, being protected and defended by the mighty Providence of Almighty God, and by the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, and the presence of the holy relique). And, after many conflicts and warlike exploits there had and done between the English men and the King of Scots and his company, the said battle ended, and the victory was obtained, to the great overthrow and confusion of the Scots, their enemies: And then the said Prior and monks, accompanied with Ralph Lord Nevil, and John Nevil his son, and the Lord Percy, and many other nobles of England, returned home and went to the abbey church, there joining in hearty prayer and thanksgiving to God and holy St. Cuthbert for the victory atchieved that day."

This battle was afterwards called the Battle of Neville's Cross from the following circumstance:—

"On the west side of the city of Durham, where two roads pass each other, a most notable, famous, and goodly cross of stone-work was erected, and set up to the honour of God for the victory there obtained in the field of battle, and known by the name of Nevil's Cross, and built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Nevil, one of the most excellent and chief persons in the said battle." The Relique of St. Cuthbert afterwards became of great importance in military events. For soon after this battle, says the same author, "The prior caused a goodly and sumptuous banner to be made, (which is then described at great length,) and in the midst of the same banner-cloth was the said holy relique and corporax-cloth enclosed, etc. etc., and so sumptuously finished, and absolutely perfected, this banner was dedicated to holy St. Cuthbert, of intent and purpose, that for the future it should be carried to any battle, as occasion should serve; and was never carried and shewed at any battle but by the especial grace of God Almighty, and the mediation of holy St. Cuthbert, it brought home victory; which banner-cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, fell into the possession of Dean Whittingham, whose wife was called Katharine, being a French woman, (as is most credibly reported by eye-witnesses,) did most injuriously burn the same in her fire, to the open contempt and disgrace of all ancient and goodly reliques."—Extracted from a book entitled, Durham Cathedral, as it stood before the Dissolution of the Monastery. It appears, from the old metrical History, that the above-mentioned banner was carried by the Earl of Surrey to Flodden Field.—W. W. 1815.

[JJ] Compare An Evening Walk, ll. 365, 366 (vol. i. p. 31)—

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.

Also The Excursion (book iv. ll. 1173, 1174)—

The little rills, and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight.

And Wordsworth's sonnet beginning—

The unremitting voice of nightly streams
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers.

Compare also in Gray's Tour in the Lakes, "At distance, heard the murmur of many waterfalls, not audible in the daytime."—Ed.

[KK] Compare Milton's Sonnet on his Blindness, l. 14—

They also serve who only stand and wait.Ed.

[LL] In the limestone ridges and hills of the Craven district of Yorkshire there are many caverns and underground recesses, such as the Yordas cave referred to in The Prelude (vol. iii. p. 289).—Ed.

[MM] The Towers of Barnard Castle on the Tees in Yorkshire.—Ed.

[NN] It is so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whitaker. "Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old warfare between the Nortons and Cliffords. On a point of very high ground, commanding an immense prospect, and protected by two deep ravines, are the remains of a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth to have been built by Richard Norton. The walls are of strong grout-work, about four feet thick. It seems to have been three stories high. Breaches have been industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, to render it untenable.

"But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure-house in summer, as there are, adjoining to it, several large mounds, (two of them are pretty entire,) of which no other account can be given than that they were butts for large companies of archers.

"The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapted to the uses of a watch-tower."—W. W. 1815. (See note VII. [p. 201].)—Ed.

The remains of Norton Tower are not in the highest point of the Rylstone Fells, but on one of the western ridges: and there are now only four bare roofless rectangular walls. It was originally both a watch-tower and a hunting-tower. Looking towards Malham to the north and north-west, the view is exactly as described in the poem.—Ed.

[OO] This extract was first prefixed to canto seventh in the edition of 1837.—Ed.

[PP] "After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates were forfeited to the crown, where they remained till the 2d or 3d of James; they were then granted to Francis Earl of Cumberland." From an accurate survey made at that time, several particulars have been extracted by Dr. W. It appears that the mansion-house was then in decay. "Immediately adjoining is a close, called the Vivery, so called undoubtedly from the French Vivier, or modern Latin Viverium; for there are near the house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were introduced in the earlier part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary works, fish-ponds, an island, etc. The whole township was ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer, the property of the Lord, which, together with the wood, had, after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The wood, it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, before which time it appears that the neighbourhood must have exhibited a forest-like and sylvan scene. In this survey, among the old tenants, is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with his master, and was executed at Ripon."—W. W. 1815.

[QQ] There are two small streams which rise near Rylstone. One, called Rylstone beck, flows westwards into the Aire. Another makes its way eastwards towards the Wharfe, joins Linton beck, and so enters Wharfe between Linton Church and Grassington Bridge. It is to the latter that Wordsworth refers, although the former is now called Rylstone beck.—Ed.

[RR] "At the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, the valley of Wharf forks off into two great branches, one of which retains the name of Wharfdale to the source of the river; the other is usually called Littondale, but more anciently and properly Amerdale. Dern-brook, which runs along an obscure valley from the N. W., is derived from a Teutonic word, signifying concealment."—Dr. Whitaker.—W. W. 1815.

The valley of Littondale, as is shown in Wordsworth's note, once bore the name of Amerdale. Though the name is not now given to the beck, it survives, singularly enough, in one pool in the stream, where it joins the Wharfe, which is still called "Amerdale Dub."—Ed.

[SS] From this valley of Litton a small lateral one runs up in a south-westerly direction at Arncliffe, making a "deep fork," and is called Dernbrook. Dern means seclusion, and two or three miles up this ghyll is a farm-house bearing the name of Dernbrook House. "The phrase 'By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side' is so appropriate," says the late incumbent of Arncliffe, the Ven. Archdeacon Boyd, in a letter to the editor, "that it would almost seem that Wordsworth had been there." Mr. Boyd adds, "In the illustrated edition of The White Doe, published by Longmans a few years ago, there is an illustration by Birket Foster of the Dernbrook House, the original of which I had the honour to supply. It is but a short distance—two or three miles—from Malham Tarn."—Ed.

[TT] On one of the bells of Rylstone church, which seems co-eval with the building of the tower, is this cypher, J. N. for John Norton, and the motto, "God us ayde."—W. W. 1815.

"A ring, bearing the same motto, was sold at a sale of antiquities from Bramhope Manor, Feb. 1865. The Norton Shield of Arms is in Rylstone Church." (See Murray's Yorkshire.)—Ed.

[UU] Which is thus described by Dr. Whitaker:—"On the plain summit of the hill are the foundations of a strong wall, stretching from the S. W. to the N. E. corner of the tower, and to the edge of a very deep glen. From this glen, a ditch, several hundred yards long, runs south to another deep and rugged ravine. On the N. and W. where the banks are very steep, no wall or mound is discoverable, paling being the only fence that would stand on such ground.

"From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it appears that such pounds for deer, sheep, etc., were far from being uncommon in the south of Scotland. The principle of them was something like that of a wire mouse-trap. On the declivity of a steep hill, the bottom and sides of which were fenced so as to be impassable, a wall was constructed nearly level with the surface on the outside, yet so high within that without wings it was impossible to escape in the opposite direction. Care was probably taken that these enclosures should contain better feed than the neighbouring parks or forests; and whoever is acquainted with the habits of these sequacious animals, will easily conceive, that if the leader was once tempted to descend into the snare, an herd would follow."

I cannot conclude without recommending to the notice of all lovers of beautiful scenery—Bolton Abbey and its neighbourhood. This enchanting spot belongs to the Duke of Devonshire; and the superintendance of it has for some years been entrusted to the Rev. William Carr, who has most skilfully opened out its features; and in whatever he has added, has done justice to the place by working with an invisible hand of art in the very spirit of nature.—W. W. 1815.

[VV] The late Archdeacon of Craven wrote to me of this, "There never can have been a Lady Chapel in the usual place at Bolton, for the altar was close to the east window. I never heard of a Saint Mary's shrine; but, most probably, the church was dedicated to St. Mary, in which case she" (the Lady Emily) "would be speaking of the building. In proof of this, the Priory of Embsay was dedicated to St. Mary; and naturally the dedication, on the removal from Embsay to Bolton, would be renewed. See Whitaker, p. 369, in extracting from the compotus, 'Comp. Monasterii be' Mar' de Boulton in Craven.'" It may be added that the whole church being dedicated to St. Mary—as in the case of the Cistercian buildings—there would be no Lady Chapel. The mention in detail of "prostrate altars," "shrines defaced," "fret-work imagery," "plates of ornamental brass," and "sculptured Forms of Warriors" in the closing canto of The White Doe is—like the "one sequestered hillock green" where Francis Norton was supposed to "sleep in his last abode"—part of the imaginative drapery of the poem.—Ed.

[WW] Compare Sackville's Ferrex and Porrex, iv. 2; Lord Surrey's lines beginning, "Give place, ye lovers"; and George Turberville's poem which begins, "You want no skill."—Ed.

[XX] Camden expressly says that he was violently attached to the Catholic Religion.—W. W. 1815.

Or, The Fate of the Nortons

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;[A]