Which way soe’er our fate incline,
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,
The meekest Child on this blessed earth.
I had—but these are by my side,
These Eight, and this is a day of pride! 620
The time is ripe. With festive din
Lo! how the people are flocking in,—
Like hungry fowl to the feeder’s hand
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
Grave Gentry of estate and name,
And Captains known for worth in arms 630
And prayed the Earls in self-defence
To rise, and prove their innocence.—
“Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might
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
Remains without an Heir, the bait
Of strife and factions desperate; 640
Who, paying deadly hate in kind
Through all things else, in this can find
A mutual hope, a common mind;
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,
And ye must raise her from the dust.
With wishes of still bolder scope 650
On you we look, with dearest hope;
Even for our Altars—for the prize,
In Heaven, of life that never dies;
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
The precious folds—”behold,” said he,
“The ransom of a sinful world; 660
Let this your preservation be;
The wounds of hands and feet and side,
And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died.
—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
While she the holy work pursued.”
“Uplift the Standard!” was the cry 670
From all the listeners that stood round,
“Plant it,—by this we live or die.”
The Norton ceased not for that sound,
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,
And then a thoughtful pause ensued:
“Uplift it!” said Northumberland—680
Whereat, from all the multitude
Who saw the Banner reared on high
In all its dread emblazonry,
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!
Now was the North in arms:—they shine
In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne,
At Percy’s voice: and Neville sees 690
His Followers gathering in from Tees,
From Were, and all the little rills
Concealed among the forked hills—
Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all
Of Neville, at their Master’s call
Had sate together in Raby Hall!
Such strength that Earldom held of yore;
Nor wanted at this time rich store
Of well-appointed chivalry.
—Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, 700
And greet the old paternal shield,
They heard the summons;—and, furthermore,
Horsemen and Foot of each degree,
Unbound by pledge of fealty,
Appeared, with free and open hate
Of novelties in Church and State;
Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire;
And Romish priest, in priest’s attire.
And thus, in arms, a zealous Band
Proceeding under joint command, 710
To Durham first their course they bear;
And in Saint Cuthbert’s ancient seat
Sang mass,—and tore the book of prayer,—
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,”
The Choicest Warriors of the North!
But none for beauty and for worth
Like those eight Sons—who, in a ring, 720
(Ripe men, or blooming in life’s spring)
Each with a lance, erect and tall,
A falchion, and a buckler small,
Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,
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
Henceforth bestride;—triumphantly,
He stands upon the grassy sod, 730
Trusting himself to the earth, and God.
Rare sight to embolden and inspire!
Proud was the field of Sons and Sire;
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;
A stature undepressed in size,
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, 740
In open victory o’er the weight
Of seventy years, to loftier height;
Magnific limbs of withered state;
A face to fear and venerate;
Eyes dark and strong; and on his head
Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread,
Which a brown morion half-concealed,
Light as a hunter’s of the field;
And thus, with girdle round his waist,
Whereon the Banner-staff might rest 750
At need, he stood, advancing high
The glittering, floating Pageantry.
Who sees him?—thousands see, and One
With unparticipated gaze;
Who, ‘mong those thousands, friend hath none,
And treads in solitary ways.
He, following wheresoe’er he might,
Hath watched the Banner from afar,
As shepherds watch a lonely star,
Or mariners the distant light 760
That guides them through a stormy night.
And now, upon a chosen plot
Of rising ground, yon heathy spot!
He takes alone 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,
He there stands fixed from hour to hour:
Yet sometimes in more humble guise, 770
Upon the turf-clad height he lies
Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask<
br />
In sunshine were his only task,
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!
The pageant glancing to and fro;
And hope is wakened by the sight, 780
He thence may learn, ere fall of night,
Which way the tide is doomed to flow.
To London were the Chieftains bent;
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
Thus suddenly, and brought so near? 790
The Earls upon each other gazed,
And Neville’s cheek grew pale with fear;
For, with a high and valiant name,
He bore a heart of timid frame;
And bold if both had been, yet they
“Against so many may not stay.”
Back therefore will they hie to seize
A strong Hold on the banks of Tees
There wait a favourable hour,
Until Lord Dacre with his power 800
From Naworth come; and Howard’s aid
Be with them openly displayed.
While through the Host, from man to man,
A rumour of this purpose ran,
The Standard trusting to the care
Of him who heretofore did bear
That charge, impatient Norton sought
The Chieftains to unfold his thought,
And thus abruptly spake;—”We yield
(And can it be?) an unfought field!— 810
How oft has strength, the strength of heaven,
To few triumphantly been given!
Still do our very children boast
Of mitred Thurston—what a Host
He conquered!—Saw we not the Plain
(And flying shall behold again)
Where faith was proved?—while to battle moved
The Standard, on the Sacred Wain
That bore it, compassed round by a bold
Fraternity of Barons old; 820
And with those grey-haired champions stood,
Under the saintly ensigns three,
The infant Heir of Mowbray’s blood—
All confident of victory!—
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?
When the Prior of Durham with holy hand
Raised, as the Vision gave command, 830
Saint Cuthbert’s Relic—far and near
Kenned on the point of a lofty spear;
While the Monks prayed in Maiden’s Bower
To God descending in his power.
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:
We, we, the sanctities of old
Would re-establish and uphold:840
Be warned”—His zeal the Chiefs confounded,
But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:
Back through the melancholy Host
Went Norton, and resumed his post.
Alas! thought he, and have I borne
This Banner raised with joyful pride,
This hope of all posterity,
By those dread symbols sanctified;
Thus to become at once the scorn
Of babbling winds as they go by, 850
A spot of shame to the sun’s bright eye,
To the light clouds a mockery!
—”Even these poor eight of mine would stem—”
Half to himself, and half to them
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,
Without the Cause for which they fight;
A Cause, which on a needful day 860
Would breed us thousands brave as they.”
—So speaking, he his reverend head
Raised towards that Imagery once more:
But the familiar prospect shed
Despondency unfelt before:
A shock of intimations vain,
Dismay, and superstitious pain,
Fell on him, with the sudden thought
Of her by whom the work was wrought:—
Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 870
With love divine and gentle light?
She would not, could not, disobey,
But her Faith leaned another way.
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,
This Cross in tears: by her, and One
Unworthier far we are undone—880
Her recreant Brother—he prevailed
Over that tender Spirit—assailed
Too oft, alas! by her whose head
In the cold grave hath long been laid:
She first, in reason’s dawn beguiled
Her docile, unsuspecting Child:
Far back—far back my mind must go
To reach the well-spring of this woe!
While thus he brooded, music sweet
Of border tunes was played to cheer 890
The footsteps of a quick retreat;
But Norton lingered in the rear,
Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last
From his distracted brain was cast,
Before his Father, Francis stood,
And spake in firm and earnest mood.
“Though here I bend a suppliant knee
In reverence, and unarmed, I bear
In your indignant thoughts my share;
Am grieved this backward march to see 900
So careless and disorderly.
I scorn your Chiefs—men who would lead,
And yet want courage at their need:
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,
Yon multitude must melt away;)
If now I ask a grace not claimed 910
While ground was left for hope; unblamed
Be an endeavour that can do
No injury to them or you.
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!
Admit me in the equipage
Of your misfortunes, that at least, 920
Whatever fate remain behind,
I may bear witness in my breast
To your nobility of mind!”
“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
Too free to one bright moment’s hope?
Suffice it that the Son, who strove 930
With fruitless effort to allay
That passion, prudently gave way;
Nor did he turn aside to prove
His Brothers’ wisdom or their love—
But calmly from the spot withdrew;
His best endeavours t
o renew,
Should e’er a kindlier time ensue.
CANTO FOURTH
‘Tis night: in silence looking down,
The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 940
And Castle, like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;—
And southward far, with moor between,
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,
The bright Moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone’s old sequestered Hall
A venerable image yields
Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
While from one pillared chimney breathes
The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 950
—The courts are hushed;—for timely sleep
The greyhounds to their kennel creep;
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;
And higher still, above the bower
Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 960
With glittering finger points at nine.
Ah! who could think that sadness here
Hath any sway? or pain, or fear?
A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day;
The garden pool’s dark surface, stirred
By the night insects in their play,
Breaks into dimples small and bright;
A thousand, thousand rings of light
That shape themselves and disappear 970
Almost as soon as seen:—and lo!
Not distant far, the milk-white Doe—
The same who quietly was feeding
On the green herb, and nothing heeding,
When Francis, uttering to the Maid
His last words in the yew-tree shade,
Involved whate’er by love was brought
Out of his heart, or crossed his thought,
Or chance presented to his eye,
In one sad sweep of destiny—980
The same fair Creature, who hath found
Her way into forbidden ground;
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
Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,
Converging walks, and fountains gay,
And terraces in trim array—990
Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
With pine and cedar spreading wide
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,
Through park, or chase, or savage wood.
But see the consecrated Maid
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 217