Why comes he not?-for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past;
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on ;-nor heeds
The sorrow, through the Villages,
Spread by triumphant cruelties
Of vengeful military force,
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:
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: 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 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, 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 Swayed the brave man to his wrong. And how-unless it were the sense Of all-disposing Providence, Its will unquestionably shownHow 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, 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
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
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
There Francis for a moment's space
Made halt-but hark! a noise behind
Of horsemen at an eager pace!
He heard, and with misgiving mind.
-'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand
Of death had drunk their punishment,
Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
How Francis, 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

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, "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
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,
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 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. -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, In holy ground a grave would make; And straightway buried he should be In the Church-yard of the Priory.

Apart, some little space, was made The grave where Francis must be laid. In no confusion or neglect

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:
So to the Church-yard 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,
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!

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.'

THOU Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory for this Maiden's sake,
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled
To hide her poor afflicted head?
What mighty forest in its gloom
Enfolds her?-is a rifted tomb
Within the wilderness her seat?
Some island which the wild waves beat-

Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?

Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds
Its perilous front in mists and clouds?
High-climbing rock, low sunless dale,
Sea, desert, what do these avail?
Oh take her anguish and her fears
Into a deep recess of years!

'Tis done ;-despoil and desolation
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown ;
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown
With weeds; the bowers are overthrown,
Or have given way to slow mutation,
While, in their ancient habitation

The Norton name hath been unknown.
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,
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,
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
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.

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; 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

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; 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,
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,
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 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
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

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, 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, By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, 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 deedEndless 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,-
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
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,
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.

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.

When the bells of Rylstone played
Their sabbath music-Gad 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,
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 Up would she climb to Norton Tower, And thence look round her far and wide, Her fate there measuring ;-all is stilled,The weak One hath subdued her heart; Behold the prophecy fulfilled,

Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!

But here her Brother's words have failed;
Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
That she, of him and all bereft,
Hath yet this faithful Partner left;
This one Associate that disproves

His words, remains for her, and loves.
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
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 manifoldHere hath she, here before her sight, Close to the summit of this height, The grassy rock-encircled Pound In which the Creature first was found. So beautiful the timid Thrall (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!

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
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine ;
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 :

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;

How happy in its turn to meet
The recognition! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance;
Communication, like the ray

Of a new morning, to the nature
And prospects of the inferior Creature!

A mortal Song we sing, by dower Encouraged of celestial power;

Power which the viewless Spirit shed
By whom we were first visited;

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,
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;
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 blessed Pilgrim trod,
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;
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,
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.
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.

Most glorious sunset! and a ray Survives-the twilight of this dayIn that fair Creature whom the fields Support, and whom the forest shields; Who, having filled a holy place, Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace; And bears a memory and a mind Raised far above the law of kind; Haunting the spots with lonely cheer Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 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 Are heard among the moorland dells,