Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

And to his grave will go with scars,

  Relics of long and distant wars—

  That Old Man, studious to expound

  The spectacle, is mounting high

  To days of dim antiquity;

  When Lady Aaliza mourned

  Her Son, and felt in her despair

  The pang of unavailing prayer;

  Her Son in Wharf’s abysses drowned,

  The noble Boy of Egremound. 230

  From which affliction—when the grace

  Of God had in her heart found place—

  A pious structure, fair to see

  Rose up, this stately Priory!

  The Lady’s work;—but now laid low;

  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;

  And, through the chink in the fractured floor

  Look down, and see a griesly sight;

  A vault where the bodies are buried upright!

  There, face by face, and hand by hand,

  The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;

  And, in his place, among son and sire,

  Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,

  A valiant man, and a name of dread 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,

  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

  Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!

  That slender Youth, a scholar pale,

  From Oxford come to his native vale,

  He also hath his own conceit:

  It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy,

  Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet

  In his wanderings solitary:

  Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 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,

  Amid the trees of some thick wood,

  In semblance of a lady fair;

  And taught him signs, and showed him sights,

  In Craven’s dens, on Cumbrian heights;

  When under cloud of fear he lay, 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,

  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 quietness.

  And choice of studious friends had he

  Of Bolton’s dear fraternity;

  Who, standing on this old church tower,

  In many a calm propitious hour,

  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;

  In quest belike of transmutations

  Rich as the mine’s most bright creations.

  But they and their good works are fled,

  And all is now disquieted—

  And peace is none, for living or dead!

  Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so,

  But look again at the radiant Doe!

  What quiet watch she seems to keep, 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;

  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;

  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:

  A voice is with us—a command

  To chant, in strains of heavenly glory,

  A tale of tears, a mortal story!

  CANTO SECOND

  THE Harp in lowliness obeyed;

  And first we sang of the greenwood shade

  And a solitary Maid;

  Beginning, where the song must end, 340

  With her, and with her sylvan Friend;

  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

  Meekly, with foreboding thought,

  In vermeil colours and in gold

  An unblest work; which, standing by,

  Her Father did with joy behold,—350

  Exulting in its imagery;

  A Banner, fashioned to fulfil

  Too perfectly his headstrong will:

  For on this Banner had her hand

  Embroidered (such her Sire’s command)

  The sacred Cross; and figured there

  The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;

  Full soon to be uplifted high,

  And float in rueful company!

  It was the time when England’s Queen 360

  Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;

  Nor yet the restless crown had been

  Disturbed upon her virgin head;

  But now the inly-working North

  Was ripe to send its thousands forth,

  A potent vassalage, to fight

  In Percy’s and in Neville’s right,

  Two Earls fast leagued in discontent,

  Who gave their wishes open vent;

  And boldly urged a general plea, 370

  The rites of ancient piety

  To be triumphantly restored,

  By the stern justice of the sword!

  And that same Banner, on whose breast

  The blameless Lady had exprest

  Memorials chosen to give life

  And sunshine to a dangerous strife;

  That Banner, waiting for the Call,

  Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall.

  It came; and Francis Norton said, 380

  “O Father! rise not in this fray—

  The hairs are white upon your head;

  Dear Father, hear me when I say

  It is
for you too late a day!

  Bethink you of your own good name:

  A just and gracious Queen have we,

  A pure religion, and the claim

  Of peace on our humanity.—

  ‘Tis meet that I endure your scorn;

  I am your son, your eldest born; 390

  But not for lordship or for land,

  My Father, do I clasp your knees;

  The Banner touch not, stay your hand,

  This multitude of men disband,

  And live at home in blameless ease;

  For these my brethren’s sake, for me;

  And, most of all, for Emily!”

  Tumultuous noises filled the hall;

  And scarcely could the Father hear

  That name—pronounced with a dying fall— 400

  The name of his only Daughter dear,

  As on the banner which stood near

  He glanced a look of holy pride,

  And his moist eyes were glorified;

  Then did he seize the staff, and say:

  “Thou, Richard, bear’st thy father’s name,

  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, 410

  Will cleave to this good cause and me.”

  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,

  From all his warlike tenantry,

  All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,—

  A voice to which the hills replied!

  But Francis, in the vacant hall, 420

  Stood silent under dreary weight,—

  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;

  And, when he waked, his languid eye

  Was on the calm and silent sky;

  With air about him breathing sweet,

  And earth’s green grass beneath his feet; 430

  Nor did he fail ere long to hear

  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,

  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. 440

  The past he calmly hath reviewed:

  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?

  He saw her where in open view

  She sate beneath the spreading yew—

  Her head upon her lap, concealing

  In solitude her bitter feeling:

  “Might ever son ‘command’ a sire, 450

  The act were justified to-day.”

  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.”

  She heard, but looked not up, nor spake;

  And sorrow moved him to partake

  Her silence; then his thoughts turned round,

  And fervent words a passage found. 460

  “Gone are they, bravely, though misled;

  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.

  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; 470

  Untried our Brothers have been loved

  With heart by simple nature moved;

  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

  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; 480

  And there, by fresh hopes beautified,

  Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power

  Of man, our youngest, fairest flower!

  I, by the right of eldest born,

  And in a second father’s place,

  Presumed to grapple with their scorn,

  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, 490

  Methought, was yielding inwardly,

  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, my Sister dear,

  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, 500

  As that unhallowed Banner grew

  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;

  With theirs my efforts cannot blend,

  I cannot for such cause contend;

  Their aims I utterly forswear;

  But I in body will be there. 510

  Unarmed and naked will I go,

  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.”—

  Therewith he threw away the lance,

  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. 520

  “For thee, for thee, is left the sense

  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.

  —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 530

  To thee, a woman, and thence weak:

  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,

  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, 540

  All prayers for this cause, or for that!

  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—

  This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,

  W
alks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall—

  Our fate is theirs, will reach them all;

  The young horse must forsake his manger, 550

  And learn to glory in a Stranger;

  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,

  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 560

  Return, and to her murmuring floods,

  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

  The last leaf on a blasted tree;

  If not in vain we breathed the breath

  Together of a purer faith;

  If hand in hand we have been led, 570

  And thou, (O happy thought this day:)

  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,

  Together we have learned to prize

  Forbearance and self-sacrifice;

  If we like combatants have fared,

  And for this issue been prepared; 580

  If thou art beautiful, and youth

  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

  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, 590

  He kissed the consecrated Maid;

  And down the valley then pursued,

  Alone, the armed Multitude.

  CANTO THIRD

  NOW joy for you who from the towers

  Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,

  Telling melancholy hours!

  Proclaim it, let your Masters hear

  That Norton with his band is near!

  The watchmen from their station high

  Pronounced the word,—and the Earls descry, 600

  Well-pleased, the armed Company

  Marching down the banks of Were.

  Said fearless Norton to the pair

  Gone forth to greet 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,

  And horse and harness followed—see

  The best part of their Yeomanry! 610

  —Stand forth, my Sons!—these eight are mine,

  Whom to this service I commend;