Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  With conscious sight, as he swept along— 1390

  It was the Banner in his hand!

  He felt—and made a sudden stand.

  He looked about like one betrayed:

  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,

  And find, find anywhere, a right

  To excuse him in his Country’s sight? 1400

  No; will not all men deem the change

  A downward course, perverse and strange?

  Here is it;—but how? when? must she,

  The unoffending Emily,

  Again this piteous object see?

  Such conflict long did he maintain,

  Nor liberty nor rest could gain:

  His own life into danger brought

  By this sad burden—even that thought,

  Exciting self-suspicion strong 1410

  Swayed the brave man to his wrong.

  And how—unless it were the sense

  Of all-disposing Providence,

  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,

  But that Heaven’s purpose might be known,

  Doth now no hindrance meet his eye, 1420

  No intervention, to withstand

  Fulfilment of a Father’s prayer

  Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest

  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

  To Emily in the yew-tree shade:

  He sighed, submitting will and power 1430

  To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.

  “No choice is left, the deed is mine—

  Dead are they, dead!—and I will go,

  And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,

  Will lay the Relic on the shrine.”

  So forward with a steady will

  He went, and traversed plain and hill;

  And up the vale of Wharf his way

  Pursued;—and, at the dawn of day,

  Attained a summit whence his eyes 1440

  Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.

  There Francis for a moment’s space

  Made halt—but hark! a noise behind

  Of horsemen at an eager pace!

  He heard, and with misgiving mind.

  —’Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:

  They come, by cruel Sussex sent;

  Who, when the Nortons from the hand

  Of death had drunk their punishment,

  Bethought him, angry and ashamed, 1450

  How Francis, with the Banner claimed

  As his own charge, had disappeared,

  By all the standers-by revered.

  His whole bold carriage (which had quelled

  Thus far the Opposer, and repelled

  All censure, enterprise so bright

  That even bad men had vainly striven

  Against that overcoming light)

  Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,

  That to what place soever fled 1460

  He should be seized, alive or dead.

  The troop of horse have gained the height

  Where Francis stood in open sight.

  They hem him round—”Behold the proof,”

  They cried, “the Ensign in his hand!

  ‘He’ did not arm, he walked aloof!

  For why?—to save his Father’s land;—

  Worst Traitor of them all is he,

  A Traitor dark and cowardly!”

  “I am no Traitor,” Francis said, 1470

  “Though this unhappy freight I bear;

  And must not part with. But beware;—

  Err not by hasty zeal misled,

  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 like a place of vantage showed;

  And there stood bravely, though forlorn.

  In self-defence with warlike brow 1480

  He stood,—nor weaponless was now;

  He from a Soldier’s hand had snatched

  A spear,—and, so protected, watched

  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

  The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,

  One, the most eager for the prize, 1490

  Rushed in; and—while, O grief to tell!

  A glimmering sense still left, with eyes

  Unclosed the noble Francis lay—

  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!

  Proudly the Horsemen bore away

  The Standard; and where Francis lay 1500

  There was he left alone, unwept,

  And for two days unnoticed slept.

  For at that time bewildering fear

  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,

  And to the nearest homesteads ran

  And called the people to the place. 1510

  —How desolate is Rylstone-hall!

  This was the instant thought of all;

  And if the lonely Lady there

  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

  And no one hinder their intent,

  Then, they, for Christian pity’s sake, 1520

  In holy ground a grave would make;

  And straightway buried he should be

  In the Churchyard of the Priory.

  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;

  And that there was no neighbourhood

  Of kindred for him in that ground: 1530

  So to the Churchyard they are bound,

  Bearing the body on a bier;

  And psalms they sing—a holy sound

  That hill and vale with sadness hear.

  But Emily hath raised her head,

  And is again disquieted;

  She must behold!—so many gone,

  Where is the solitary One?

  And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,—

  To seek her Brother forth she went, 1540

  And tremblingly her course she bent

  Toward Bolton’s ruined Priory.

  She comes, and in the vale hath heard

  The funeral dirge;—she sees the knot

  Of people, sees them in one spot—

  And darting like a wounded bird

  She reached the grave, and with her breast

  Upon the ground received the rest,—

  The consummation, the whole ruth

  And sorrow of this final truth! 1550

  CANTO SEVENTH

  “Powers there are

&nb
sp; That touch each other to the quick—in modes

  Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

  No soul to dream of.”

  THOU Spirit, whose angelic hand

  Was to the harp a strong command,

  Called the submissive strings to wake

  In glory for this Maiden’s sake,

  Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled

  To hide her poor afflicted head?

  What mighty forest in its gloom

  Enfolds her?—is a rifted tomb

  Within the wilderness her seat?

  Some island which the wild waves beat— 1560

  Is that the Sufferer’s last retreat?

  Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds

  Its perilous front in mists and clouds?

  High-climbing rock, low sunless dale,

  Sea, desert, what do these avail?

  Oh take her anguish and her fears

  Into a deep recess of years!

  ‘Tis done;—despoil and desolation

  O’er Rylstone’s fair domain have blown;

  Pools, terraces, and walks are sown 1570

  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

  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 a joyless human Being, 1580

  Of aspect such as if the waste

  Were under her dominion placed.

  Upon a primrose bank, her throne

  Of quietness, she sits alone;

  Among the ruins of a wood,

  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, 1590

  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

  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 1600

  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:

  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. 1610

  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

  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; 1620

  The mighty sorrow hath 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

  The infirmities of mortal love;

  Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable,

  And awfully impenetrable.

  And so—beneath a mouldered tree,

  A self-surviving leafless oak 1630

  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

  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; 1640

  And, suddenly, behold a wonder!

  For One, among those rushing deer,

  A single One, in mid career

  Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye

  Upon the Lady Emily;

  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, 1650

  Drew softly near her, and more near—

  Looked round—but saw no cause for fear;

  So to her feet the Creature came,

  And laid its head upon her knee,

  And looked into the Lady’s face,

  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, 1660

  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

  Beloved of Heaven, Heaven’s chosen care,

  This was for you a precious greeting;

  And may it prove a fruitful meeting!

  Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe

  Can she depart? can she forego 1670

  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?

  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?

  That day, the first of a re-union 1680

  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 sylvan haunt withdrew,

  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 1690

  Once owned her Father for his Lord;

  A hut, by tufted trees defended,

  Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.

  When Emily by morning light

  Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight.

  She shrunk:—with one frail shock of pain

  Received and followed by a prayer,

  She saw the Creature once again;

  Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;—

  But, wheresoever she looked round, 1700

  All now was trouble-haunted ground;

  And therefore now she deems it good

  Once more this restless neighbourhood

  To leave.—Unwooed, yet unforbidden,

  The White Doe followed up the vale,

  Up to another cottage, hidden

  In the deep fork of Amerdale;

  And there may Emily restore

  Herself, in spots unseen before.

  —Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 1710

  By lurking Dernbrook’s pathless side,

  Haunts of a strengthening amity

  That calmed her, cheer
ed, and fortified?

  For she hath ventured now to read

  Of time, and place, and thought, and deed—

  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,— 1720

  From looks conceiving her desire;

  From look, deportment, voice, or mien,

  That vary to the heart within.

  If she too passionately wreathed

  Her arms, or over-deeply breathed,

  Walked quick or slowly, every mood

  In its degree was understood;

  Then well may their accord be true,

  And kindliest intercourse ensue.

  —Oh! surely ‘twas a gentle rousing 1730

  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!

  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, 1740

  White as whitest cloud on high

  Floating through the azure sky.

  —What now is left for pain or fear?

  That Presence, dearer and more dear,

  While they, side by side, were straying,

  And the shepherd’s pipe was playing,

  Did now a very gladness yield

  At morning to the dewy field,

  And with a deeper peace endued

  The hour of moonlight solitude. 1750

  With her Companion, in such frame

  Of mind, to Rylstone back she came;

  And, ranging through the wasted groves,

  Received the memory of old loves,

  Undisturbed and undistrest,

  Into a soul which now was blest

  With a soft spring-day of holy,

  Mild, and grateful, melancholy:

  Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,

  But by tender fancies brightened. 1760

  When the bells of Rylstone played

  Their sabbath music—”God us ayde!”

  That was the sound they seemed to speak;

  Inscriptive legend which I ween

  May on those holy bells be seen,

  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, 1770

  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

  Their part in this effectual prayer.

  Nor lacked she Reason’s firmest power;

  But with the White Doe at her side