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(From The White Doe of Rylstone)
FROM Bolton’s old monastic tower | |
| The bells ring loud with gladsome power; | |
| The sun shines 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, | |
| 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 budding brooms; | |
| Path, or no path, what care they? | |
| And thus in joyous mood they hie | 15 |
| To Bolton’s mouldering Priory. | |
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| 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,— | |
| 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; | |
| And thither young and old repair, | |
| This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. | 30 |
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| Fast the churchyard fills; anon, | |
| Look again, and they all are gone,— | |
| The cluster round the porch, and the folk | |
| Who sat in the shade of the Prior’s Oak! | |
| 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 ’t is the sunrise now of zeal,— | 40 |
| Of a pure faith the vernal prime,— | |
| In great Eliza’s golden time. | |
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| 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 churchyard ground,— | |
| 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. | |
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| Lie silent in your graves, ye dead! | |
| Lie quiet in your churchyard 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! | |
| ’T is 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 of grace from purest heaven. | |
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| 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 space of open day, | |
| Where the enamored sunny light | 85 |
| Brightens her that was so bright; | |
| 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. | |
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| 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. | 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! harbors she a sense | 110 |
| Of sorrow or of reverence? | |
| Can she be grieved for choir 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? | |
| 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; | |
| Or altar, whence the cross was rent, | |
| Now rich with mossy ornament? | 125 |
| —She sees a warrior carved in stone, | |
| Among the thick weeds, stretched alone,— | |
| 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 | |
| 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 | 140 |
| Beside the ridge of grassy grave | |
| In quietness she lays her down; | |
| Gentle 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. | |
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