The White Doe of Rylstone by William Wordsworth

1 00 - Front Matter 6:33

The White Doe of Ryleston, or The Fate of the Nortons, a poem, by William Wordsworth. London. Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown. Peyton Osterow. By James Ballantyne and Company, Edinburgh, 1815. Advertisement. During the summer of 1807, the author visited for the first time the beautiful scenery that surrounds Bolton Priory in Yorkshire, and the poem of the White Doe, founded upon a tradition connected with the place, was composed at the close of the same year.

Weak is the will of man, his judgment blind. Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays. Heavy is woe, and joy for humankind, a mournful thing, so transient is the blaze. Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days, who wants the glorious faculty, assigned to elevate the more than reasoning mind, and colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, imagination lofty and refined. "'Tis hurst to pluck the Amaranthine flower of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, and do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind."

They that deny a god destroy man's nobility. For certainly man is of kin to the beast by his body, and if he be not of kin to god by his spirit, he is a basic noble creature. It destroys likewise magnanimity and the raising of humane nature. For take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on when he finds himself maintained by a man, who to him is instead of a god or Melio Natura, which courage is manifestly such as that creature, without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never attain. So man, When he resteth and assureth himself upon divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human nature in itself could not obtain. Lord Bacon.

In trellised shed, with clustering roses gay, and, Mary, oft beside our blazing fire, when years of wedded life were as a day, whose current answers to the heart's desire, Did we together read in Spencer's lay how Una, sad of soul in sad attire, the gentle Una, born of heavenly birth, to seek her night went wandering o'er the earth.

And then, beloved, pleasing was the smart, and the tear precious in compassion shed for her who pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, did meekly bear the pang unmerited, meek as that emblem of her lowly heart, The milk-white lamb, which in a line she led, and faithful, loyal in her innocence, like the brave lion slayed in her defence.

Notes could we hear, as of a fairy shell, attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught, free fancy prized each specious miracle, and all its finer inspiration caught, till, in the bosom of our rustic cell, We by a lamentable change were taught that bliss with mortal man may not abide. How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow. For us the voice of melody was mute. But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow and give the timid herbage leave to shoot, Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow a timely promise. Of unlooked-for fruit, fair fruit of pleasure, and serene content, from blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

It soothed us, it beguiled us, then to hear once more of troubles wrought by magic spell, and griefs whose airy motion comes not near, the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel, then, with mild Yuna in her sober cheer, High over hill and lower down the dell again we wandered, willing to partake all that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. Then too this song of mine once more could please, where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, is tempered and allayed by sympathies aloft descending, and descending deep even to the inferior kinds, whom forest trees protect from beating sunbeams, And the sweep of the sharp winds, fair creatures, to whom heaven a calm and sinless life with love hath given.

This tragic story cheered us, for it speaks of female patience, winning firm repose, and of the recompense which conscience seeks, a bright, encouraging example shows. Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, needful He serves the Muses, erringly and ill, whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive. O, that my mind were equal to fulfil the comprehensive mandate which they give, vain aspiration of an earnest will, yet in this moral strain a power may live. Beloved wife, such solace to impart as it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

Rheidel Mount, Westmoreland, April 20th, 1815. End of Front Matter.

2 01 - Canto First 15:15

From Bolton's old monastic tower, The bells ring loud with gladsome power, The sun is bright, the fields are gay, With people in their best array. Of stole and doublet, hud and scarf, along the banks of the crystal wharf, through the vale retired and lowly, trooping to that summons holy, and up among the moorlands, see what sprinklings of blithe company, of lasses and of shepherd-grooms, that down the steep hills force their way, like cattle through the buddied brooms. Path or no path, what care they? And thus in joyous mood they hie, to Bolton's mouldering priory.

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. Its courts are ravaged, but the tower is standing with a voice of power, that ancient voice which want to call to mass or some high festival. And in the shattered fabric's heart remaineth one protected part. A rural chapel, neatly dressed, in covert like a little nest, and thither young and old repair, this Sabbath day for praise and prayer.

Fast the churchyard fills. Anon, look again, and they are all gone, the cluster round the porch, and the folk who sat in the shade of the Pryor's Oak. And scarcely have they disappeared, 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 tis the sunrise now of zeal, and faith and hope are in their prime in great Eliza's golden time.

A moment ends the fervent din, and all is hushed, without and within, for though the priest more tranquilly 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, 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, and right across the verdant sod, towards the very house of God, comes gliding in with lovely gleam. 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, 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 of ocean for her own domain. Lie silent in your graves, ye dead, lie quiet in your churchyard bed, ye living, tend your holy cares, ye multitude, pursue your prayers, and blame not me if my heart and sight are occupied with one delight. Tis a work for Sabbath hours if I with this bright creature go, whether she be of forest bowers, from the bowers of earth below, or a spirit for one day given. A gift of grace from purest heaven.

What harmonious pensive changes wait upon her as she ranges round and through this pile of state, overthrown and desolate. Now a step or two her way is through space of open day, where the enamoured sunny light 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, 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 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.

THE PRESENCE OF THIS WANDERING DOE fills many a damp obscure recess with lustre of a saintly show, and reappearing she no less to the open day gives blessedness. But say, among these holy places, which thus assiduously she paces, come she with a votary's task, right to perform or boon to ask? Fair pilgrim, harbour she a sense 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, for old magnificence undone, or for the gentler work begun by nature, softening and concealing, and busy with a hand of healing? The altar, whence the cross was rent, now rich with mossy ornaments. The dormitory's length laid bare, where the wild rose blossoms fair, and sapling ash Whose place of birth is that lordly chamber's hearth?

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 pressed, palm to palm on his tranquil breast. Methinks she passeth by the sight as a common creature might, if she be doomed to inward care or service. It must lie elsewhere, 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 in this way she fares, till at last, beside the ridge of a grassy grave, in quietness she lays her down, gently as a weary wave sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, against an anchored vessel's side. Even so, without distress, doth she lie down in peace and lovingly.

The day is placid in its going, to a lingering motion bound. Like the river in its flowing, can there be a softer sound? So the balmy minutes pass, while this radiant creature lies couched upon the dewy grass, pensively with downcast eyes, when now again the people rear A voice of praise with awful cheer. It is the last, the parting song, and from the temple forth they throng, and quickly spread themselves abroad, while each pursues his several road. But some, a variegated band of middle-aged and old and young, and little children by the hand, upon their leading mothers hung, turn with obeisance gladly paid, towards the spot where, full in view, The lovely doe of whitest hue her sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound, which two spears' length of level ground did from all other graves divide, and if in some respect of pride or melancholy sickly mood still shy of human neighbourhood, or guilt that humbly would express a penitential loneliness.

Look! there she is, my child! draw near! She fears not. Wherefore should we fear? She means no harm. But still the boy, to whom the words were softly said, hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, a shamefaced blush of glowing red. Again the mother whispered low, Now you have seen the famous doe, from Rylestone. She hath found her way over the hills this Sabbath day. Her work, whate'er it be, is done, and she will depart when we are gone. Thus doth she keep from year to year her sabbath morning, foul or fair.

This whisper soft repeats what he had known from early infancy. Bright is the creature as in dreams. The boy had seen her, yea, more bright. But is she truly what she seems? He asks with insecure delight, asks of himself, and doubts, and still the doubt returns against his will, though he And all the standers-by could tell a tragic history of facts divulged wherein appear substantial motive, reason clear, why thus the milk-white doe is found couchant beside that lonely mound, and why she duly loves to pace the circuit of this hallowed place. Nor to the child's enquiring mind is such perplexity confined, for spite of sober truth that sees a world of fixed remembrances. Which to this mystery belong.

If, undeceived, my skill can trace the characters of every face, there lack not strange delusion here, conjecture vague and idle fear, and superstitious fancies strong, which do the gentle creature wrong.

That bearded staff-supported sire, who in his youth had often fed full cheerily on convent's bread, and heard old tales by the convent fire, And lately hath brought home the scars, gathered in long and distant wars. That old man, studious to expound the spectacle, hath mounted high to days of dim antiquity, when Lady Aliza 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, from which affliction, when God's grace at length had in her heart found place a pious structure. Fair to see, rose up this stately priory, the lady's work, but now lay 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, 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 grisly sight, a vault where the bodies are buried upright. There, face by face, and hand by hand, the Claphams and Moleveras stand, and in his place among son and sire is John de Clapham, that fierce esquire, a valiant man and a name of dread. 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. Off does the white doe loiter there, prying into the darksome rents. 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.

Well may her thoughts be harsh, for she numbers 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 wandering solitary. Wild notes she in his hearing sang. A song of nature's hidden powers, that whistled like the wind, and rang among the rocks and holly-bowers. T'was 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 Cumbria's heights, when under cloud of fear he lay, 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 Floddenfield, 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 Cliff had wished for worthier might. Nor in broad pomp or courtly state, him his own thoughts did elevate. Most happy in the shy recess of Barden's humble 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 for other lore, through strong desire searching the earth with chemic fire, 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, 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 hearts. And all the assembly own a law of orderly respect and awe, but, see, they vanish one by one, and, last, the doe herself is gone.

Hark! we have been for long beguiled by busy dreams and 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 hark! thy murmurs may not cease. Thou hast breeze-like visitings, for a spirit with angel wings hath 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.

End of Canto First

3 02 - Canto Second 12:42

The harp in lowliness obeyed, and first we sang of the green wood shade, and a solitary maid, beginning where the song must end, 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, t'was she who wrought meekly, with foreboding thought, in the male colours and in gold, an unblessed work, which, standing by, her father did with joy behold, exulting in the imagery, a banner one that did fulfil too perfectly his headstrong will. But on this banner, Had her hand embroidered, such was the 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, 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 Persis and in Neville's right, to earls fast-leagued in discontent, who gave their wishes open vent, and boldly urged a general plea, the rights of ancient piety, to be by force of arms renewed, glad prospects for the multitude, and that same banner. On whose breast the blameless lady had expressed memorials chosen to give life and sunshine to a dangerous strife. This banner, waiting for the call, stood quietly in Rylestone Hall.

It came, and Francis Norton said, 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. Bething 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, 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 blissful ease. For these, my brethren's sake, for me." And most of all, for Emily.

Loud noise was in the crowded hall, and scarcely could the father hear that name which had a dying fall, the name of his only daughter dear. And on the banner which stood near, he glanced a look of holy pride, and his wet eyes were glorified. Then seized the staff, and thus did 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, will cleave to this good cause and me. He spake, and eight brave sons straightway all followed him, a gallant band.

Forth, when siren sons appeared, a gratulating shout was reared, with din of arms and minstrelsy. From all his warlike tenantry, all horsed and harnessed with him to ride, a shout to which the hills replied.

But Francis, in the vacant hall, 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 at length his eye was on the calm and silent sky, with air about him, breathing sweet, and earth's green grass beneath his feet. 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. 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?

Hide them from each other. Hide, kind heaven, this pair severely tried.

He saw her, where, in open view, she sat beneath the spreading yew, her head upon her lap, concealing in solitude her bitter feeling. How could he choose but shrink or sigh? He shrunk, and muttered inwardly, Might ever, son, command a sire, the act would justify 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.

He paused her silence to partake, and long it was before he spake. Then, all at once, his thoughts turned round, and fervent words a passage found.

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 today may fall as at an innocent funeral. In deep and awful channel runs this sympathy of sire and sons. Untried our brothers were beloved. 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. And there, by fresh hopes beautified, was he, whose arm yet lacks the power of man, Our youngest, fairest flower.

I, in the right of eldest-born, and in a second father's place, presume to stand against 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, 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, thee, chiefly thee, my sister dear, whose pangs are registered in heaven, the stifled sigh, the hidden tear, and smiles that dare to take their place, meek filial smiles upon thy face, as that unhallowed banner grew, Beneath the 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. 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.

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 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, 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. Walks, pools and harbours, homestead, hall. Our fate is theirs, will reach them all. The young horse must forsake his manger. And learn to glory in a stranger. The hawk forgets 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, with 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 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 Rylestone Hall.

But thou, my sister, doomed to be the last leaf which, by heaven's decree, must hang upon a blasted tree, if not in vain we have breathed the breath together of a purer faith, If hand in hand we have been led, 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 being prepared, if thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endued 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 he kissed the consecrated maid, and down the valley he pursued alone the armed multitude.

End of Canto Second.

4 03 - Canto Third 15:45

Now joy for you and sudden cheer, ye watchmen upon Branspeth Towers, looking forth 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 pronounce the word. And the earls descry forthwith the armed company, marching down the banks of Weir.

Said fearless Norton to the pair, come forth to hail 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. Yore we crossed and swale, and horse and harness followed. See the best part of their yeomanry. Stand forth, my sons. These eight are mine, whom to this service I commend. 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, the 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. 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 Branspeth came grave gentry of estate and name. And captains known for worth in arms, 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, 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, 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 enjoy 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. 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 knowing noble birth, a maid o'er whom the blessed dove vouchsafed in gentleness to brood, while she the holy work pursued. 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. Whereat, from all the multitude who saw the banner reared on high in all its dread emblazonry, with tumult and indignant rout, a voice of uttermost joy break out. The transport was rolled down the river of Weir, and Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear, and the towers of St. 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 his followers gathering in from tees, from weir and all the little rills concealed among the forked hills. Seven hundred knights retain as 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 loath the sleepy lance to wield, and greet the old paternal shield. They heard the summons, and furthermore came foot and horsemen 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 the Romish priest in priest's attire, and thus in arms a zealous band proceeding under joint command.

To Durham first their course they bare, and in St. 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 undisputed worth like those eight sons who, in a ring, Each with a lance erect and tall, a falchion and a buckler small, stood by their sire on Clifford Moor, in youthful beauty flourishing, to guard the standard which he bore. With feet that firmly pressed the ground, they stood and girt their father round. Such was his choice. No steed will he henceforth bestride. Triumphantly he stood upon the verdant sod, 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, and bent, which rather seemed to rise in open victory o'er the weight of seventy years to higher height. Magnific limbs of withered state, a face to fear and venerate, eyes dark and strong, and on his head rich locks of silver hair thick spread, which a brown Morian, half concealed, light as a hunter's of the field, and thus, with girdle round his waist, whereon the banner staff might rest, at need he stood, advancing high the glittering, floating pageantry.

Who sees him, many see, and one with unparticipated gaze, who, among these thousands, friend hath none, and treads in solitary ways. He, following whereso'er he might, hath watched the banner from afar, as shepherds watch a lonely star, or mariners the distant light that guides them on a stormy night. And now, upon a chosen plot of rising ground, yon heathy spot, He takes this day 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, stretched out upon the ground he lies, as if it were his only task, like herdsmen in the sun, to bask.

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 that 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? The earls upon each other gazed, and Neville was oppressed with fear, for though he bore a valiant name, his heart was of a timid frame.

And bold if both had been, yet they, again so many, may not stay, and therefore will retreat to seize a stronghold on the banks of Tees. There wait a favourable hour until Lord Dacre, with his power, from Naworth comes, 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 giving to the care of him who here to fore 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! How often hath the strength of heaven to few triumphantly been given! Still do our very children boast of mighted thirst, and what a host he conquered! Saw we not the plain? And flying shall behold again, where faith was proved. Whilst a battle moved, the standard on the sacred wain, on which the grey-haired baron stood, and the infant heir of Mowbray's blood, beneath the saintly ensigns three, their confidence and 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, as the vision gave command, the Prior of Durham with holy hand St. Cuthbert's relic did up rear upon the point of a lofty spear, and God descended in his power, while the monks prayed in maiden's bower. 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. The chiefs were by his zeal 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 so joyfully, this hope of all posterity, thus to become at once the scorn of babbling winds as they go by. A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, to the frail 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 would breed us thousands brave as they. So speaking, he upraised his head towards that imagery once more, but the familiar prospect shed despondency unfelt before. A shock of intimations vain, blank fear, and superstitious pain fell on him with the sudden thought of her by whom the work was wrought.

Oh, wherefore was her countenance bright with love divine and gentle light? She did in passiveness obey, but her faith leaned another way. Ill tears she wept, I saw them fall. I overheard her as she spake, sad whirs to that mute animal, the white doe in the hawthorn brake. She steeped, but not for Jesus' sake. This cross in tears, by her, And one unworthy afar, we are undone. Her brother was it who assailed her tender spirit, and prevailed, her other parent too, whose head in the cold grave hath long been laid, from reason's earliest dawn beguiled, the docile unsuspecting child. Far back, far back my mind must go, to reach the wellspring of this woe. While thus he brooded. Music sweet was played to cheer them in retreat, but Norton lingered in the rear.

Thought followed thought, and ere the last of that unhappy train was passed, before him Francis did appear.

Now, when is not your aim to oppose, said he, in open field your foes? Now that from this decisive day your multitude must melt away, an unarmed man may come unblamed. To ask a grace that was not claimed, long as your hopes were high. He now may hither bring a fearless brow, when his discountenance can do no injury, may come to you. Though in your cause no part I bear, your indignation I can share, I am grieved this backward march to see, how careless and disorderly. I scorn your chieftains, men who lead and yet want courage at their need. Then look at them with open eyes. Deserve they further sacrifice? 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 whatever fate remains behind, I may bear witness in my breast to your nobility of mind.

Thou enemy! My bane and blight! O bold to fight the coward's fight against all good! But why declare at length the issue of this prayer, or how from his depression raised the father on his son had gazed? Suffice it that the son gave way, nor strove that passion to allay, nor did he turn aside to prove his brother's wisdom or their love, but calmly from the spot withdrew. The like endeavours to renew Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.

End of Canto Third.

5 04 - Canto Fourth 10:53

From cloudless ether, looking down, the moon, this tranquil evening, sees a camp and a beleaguered town, and castle like a stately crown on the steep rocks of winding tees. And southward far, with moors between, Hilltops and floods and forest green. The bright moon sees that valley small, where Ryleston's old sequestered hall are venerable image yields of quiet to the neighbouring fields, while from one pillared chimney breathes the silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths. 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 with glittering finger-points at nine. Ah! who could think that sadness here had 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, almost as soon as seen. And lo! not distant far, the milk-white doe. The same fair creature which was nigh, feeding in tranquillity. When Francis uttered to the maid, his last words in the yew-tree shade, the same fair creature, who hath found her way into forbidden ground, were 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-clipped foliage, green and tall.

Converging walks and fountains gay, and terraces in trim array, 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 where at this still hour is she, the consecrated Emily? Even while I speak, behold the maid emerging from the cedar shade to open moonshine, where the doe beneath the cypress spire is laid, like a patch of April snow upon a bed of herbage green, lingering in a woody glade or behind a rocky screen. Lonely relic! Which, if seen by the shepherd, is passed by with an inattentive eye, nor more regard doth she bestow upon the uncomplaining doe.

Yet the meek creature was not free, erewhile from some perplexity, for thrice has she approached this day, thought-bewildered Emily, endeavouring in her gentle way some smile or look of love to gain, encouragement to sport or play. Attempts which by the unhappy maid have all been slighted or gainsayed. O welcome to the viewless breeze! Tis fraught with acceptable feeling, and instantaneous sympathies, into the sufferer's bosom stealing. Ere she hath reached yon rustic shed, hung with late flowering woodbine spread along the walls and overhead, the fragrance of the breathing flowers. Revives a memory of those hours, when here, in this remote alcove, while from the pendant woodbine came like odours sweet as if the same, a fondly anxious mother strove to teach her salutary fears and mysteries above her years.

Yes, she is soothed, an image faint and yet not faint, a presence bright returns to her. Tis that blessed saint, Who, with mild looks and language mild, instructed here her darling child, while yet a prattler on the knee, to worship in simplicity the invisible God, and take for guide the faith reformed and purified. "'Tis flown the vision and the sense of that beguiling influence. But, O, thou angel from above, thou spirit of maternal love, that stoodst before my eyes, More clear than ghosts are fabled to appear, sent upon embassies of fear. As thou thy presence hast to me vouchsafed, in radiant ministry descend on Francis. Through the air of this sad earth to him repair, speak to him with a voice, and say that he must cast despair away.

Then from within the embowered retreat, where she had found a grateful seat, Perturb'd she issues. She will go, herself will follow to the war, and clasp her father's knees. Ah no! she meets the insuperable bar, the injunction by her brother laid, his parting charge, but ill-obeyed, that interdicted all debate, all prayer, for this cause or for that, all efforts that would turn aside the headstrong current of their fate. Her duty is to stand and wait, in resignation to abide the shock, and finally secure, o'er pain and grief, a triumph pure. She knows, she feels it, and is cheered. At least her present pangs are checked. And now an ancient man appeared, approaching her with grave respect. Down the smooth walk which then she trod, he paced along the silent sod, And greeting her, thus gently spake.

An old man's privilege I take. Dark is the time, a woeful day. Dear daughter of affliction, say, how can I serve you? Point the way.

Right have you, and may well be bold. You with my father have grown old in friendship. Go, from him, from me, strive to avert this misery. This would I beg, but on my mind a passive stillness is enjoined. If prudence offer help or aid, on you is no restriction laid. You not forbidden to recline with hope upon the will divine.

Hope, said the sufferer's zealous friend, must not forsake us till the end. In Craven's wilds is many a den to shelter persecuted men. Far underground is many a cave, where they might lie as in the grave, until this storm hath ceased to rave, or let them cross the river Tweed, and be at once from peril freed.

"'Ah! tempt me not,' she faintly sighed. "'I will not counsel nor exhort, with my condition satisfied, but you at least may make report of what befalls. Be this your task.' This may be done. Tis all I ask.

She spake, and from the lady's sight the sire, unconscious of his age, departed promptly as a page bound on some errand of delight. The noble Francis, wise as brave, thought he may have the skill to save. With hopes in tenderness concealed, unarmed, he followed to the field. Him will I seek. The insurgent powers are now besieging Barnard's towers. Grant that the moon which shines this night may guide them in a prudent flight.

But quick the turns of chance and change, and knowledge has a narrow range, whence idle fears and needless pain, and wishes blind and efforts vain, their flight the fair moon may not see, for, From mid-heaven already she hath witnessed their captivity. She saw the desperate assault upon that hostile castle-maid. But dark and dismal is the vault where Norton and his sons are laid. Disastrous issue! He had said, this night yon haughty towers must yield, or we for ever quit the field. Neville is utterly dismayed, for promise fails of Howard's aid, and Dacre... To our call replies that he is unprepared to rise. My heart is sick. This weary pause must needs be fatal to the cause. The breach is open.

On the wall this night the banner shall be planted. T'was done. His sons were with him, all. They belt him round with hearts undaunted, and others follow, sire and son, leap down into the court. "'Tis one." They shouted aloud. But heaven decreed another close to that brave deed, which struck with terror friends and foes. The friend shrinks back, the foe recoils from Norton and his filial band. But they, now caught within the toils, against a thousand cannot stand. The foe from numbers courage drew, and overpowered that gallant few. A rescue for the standard, cried the father from within the walls. But see, the sacred standard falls. Confusion through the camp spreads wide. Some fled, and some their fears detained.

But ere the moon had sunk to rest in her pale chambers of the west, of that rash levy, naught remained.

End of Canto Fourth

6 05 - Canto Fifth 10:47

Canto V of the White Doe of Rylestone High on a point of rugged ground Among the wastes of Rylestone fell Above the loftiest ridge or mound Where foresters or shepherds dwell An edifice of warlike frame stands single Norton Tower its name Its fronts all quarters, and look round o'er path and road, and plain and dell, dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream, upon a prospect without bound.

The summit of this bold ascent, though bleak and bare, and as seldom free as Pendle Hill or Penny Ghent, from wind or frost, or vapours wet, had often heard the sound of glee, when there the youthful Nortons met, To practise games and archery. How proud and happy they, the crowd of lookers-on, how pleased and proud! And from the heat of the noontide sun, from showers, or when the prize was won, they to the watch-tower did repair, commodious pleasure-house, and there would mirth run round with generous fare, and the stern old lord of Rylestone Hall, he was the proudest of them all.

But now his child, with anguish pale, upon the height walks to and fro. Tis well that she hath heard the tale, received the bitterness of woe. Dead are they, they were doomed to die. The sons and father, all are dead, all dead save one. And Emily no more shall seek this watchtower high, to look far forth with anxious eye. She is relieved from hope and dread, though suffering in extremity.

For she had hoped, had hoped, and feared, such rights did feeble nature claim, and oft her steps had hither steered, though not unconscious of self-blame. For she, her brother's charge revered, his farewell words, and by the same, yea, by her brother's very name, had in her solitude been cheered.

She turned to him, who, with his eye, was watching her while on the height she sat, or wandered restlessly, or burdened by her sorrow's weight. To him, who this dire news had told, and now beside the mourner stood, that grey-haired man of gentle blood, who, with her father, had grown old in friendship, rival hunters they, and fellow-warriors in their day. To Ryleston he the tidings brought. Then on this place the maid had sought, and told as gently as could be, the end of that sad tragedy which it had been his lot to see.

To him the lady turned. You said that Francis lives. He is not dead.

Your noble brother hath been spared to take his life. They have not dared, on him and on his high endeavour. The light of praise shall shine for ever. Nor did he, such heavens will, in vain, his solitary course maintain. Not vainly struggled in the might of duty, seeing with clear sight. He was their comfort to the last, their joy till every pang was past.

I witnessed when to York they came. What, lady, if their feet were tied! They might deserve a good man's blame, but marks of infamy and shame, these were their triumph, these their pride. Lo, Francis comes! the people cried, a prisoner once but now set free. Tis well, for he the worst defied. For sake of natural piety, he rose not in this quarrel. He his father and his brothers wooed, both for their own and country's good. To rest in peace he did divide, he parted from them, but at their side now walks in unanimity. Then peace to cruelty and scorn, while to the prison they are born. Peace, peace to all indignity. And so in prison were they laid. Oh, hear me, hear me, gentle maid, for I am come with power to bless, to scatter gleams through your distress.

of a redeeming happiness. Me did a reverend pity move, and privilege of ancient love, but most compassion for your fate, lady, for your forlorn estate. Me did these move, and I made bold, and entrance gained to that stronghold.

Your father gave me cordial greeting, but to his purposes that burned within him instantly returned. He was commanding and entreating, and said, We need not stop, my son, but I will end what is begun. Tis matter which I do not fear to entrust to any living ear. And so to Francis he renewed his words more calmly thus pursued. Might this our enterprise have sped! Change wide and deep the land had seen, a renovation from the dead, a springtide of immortal green. The darksome altars would have blazed like stars when clouds are rolled away. Salvation to all eyes that gazed. Once more the rood had been upraised to spread its arms and stand for eye. Then, then, had I survived to see new life in Bolton Priory, the voice restored, the eye of truth reopened that inspired my youth.

Had seen her in her pomp arrayed, this banner, for such vow I made, should on the consecrated breast of that same temple have found rest, I would myself have hung it high, glad offering of glad victory.

A shadow of such thought remains to cheer this sad and pensive time, a solemn fancy yet sustains one feeble being. Bids me climb even to the last, one effort more to attest my faith, if not restore.

Here then, said he, while I impart, my son, the last wish of my heart. The banner strive thou to regain, and if the endeavour be not vain, bear it. To whom, if not to thee, shall I this lonely thought consign? Bear it to Bolton Priory. and lay it on St. Mary's shrine, to wither in the sun and breeze, mid those decaying sanctities. There let at least the gift be laid, the testimony there displayed, bold proof that with no selfish aim, but for lost faith and Christ's dear name, I helmeted a brow, though white, and took a place in all men's sight. Yea, offered up this beauteous brood, This fair unrivalled brotherhood, and turned away from thee, my son, and left. But be the rest unsaid, the name untouched, the tear unshed.

My wish is known, and I have done. Now promise, grant this one request, this dying prayer, and be thou blessed.

Then Francis answered fervently, If God so will, the same shall be.

Immediately this solemn word, thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, and officers appeared in state to lead the prisoners to their fate. They rose, O wherefore should I fear to tell, O lady, you to hear? They rose, embraces none were given, they stood like trees when earth and heaven are calm. They knew each other's worth, and reverently The band went forth. They met, when they had reached the door, the banner which a soldier bore, one marshaled thus with base intent that he in scorn might go before, and, holding up this monument, conduct them to their punishment. So cruel Sussex, unrestrained by human feeling, had ordained the unhappy banner Francis saw. And with a look of calm command, inspiring universal awe, he took it from the soldier's hand, and all the people that were round confirmed the deed in peace profound.

High transports did the father shed upon his son, and they were led, led on, and yielded up their breath. Together died a happy death. But Francis... Soon as he had braved this insult, and the banner saved, that moment from among the tide of the spectators, occupied in admiration or dismay, bore unobserved his charge away.

These things which thus had in the sight and hearing passed of him who stood with Emily on the Watchtower Heights in Ryleston's woeful neighbourhood, he told, And oftentimes with voice of power to encourage or rejoice. For deepest sorrows that aspire go high, no transport ever higher. Yet, yet in this affliction, said the old man to the silent maid, yet, lady, heaven is good. The night shows yet a star which is most bright. Your brother lives, he lives. He's come, perhaps already, to his home. Then let us leave this dreary place. She yielded, and with gentle pace, though without one uplifted look, to Rylestone Hall her way she took.

End of Canto V.

7 06 - Canto Sixth 8:46

Why not comes Francis? Joyful cheer in that parental gratulation, and glow of righteous indignation, went with him from the doleful city. He fled, yet in his flight could hear the death-sound of the minster-bell. That sullen stroke pronounced farewell to Marmaduke, Cut off from pity, to Ambrose that, and then a knell for him the sweet half-opened flower, for all, all dying in one hour. Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love should bear him to his sister dear, with motion fleet as winged dove. Yea, like a heavenly messenger, an angel-guest should he appear. Why comes he not? For westward fast along the plain of York he passed. The banner staff was in his hand, the imagery concealed from sight, and crossed the expanse in open flight, reckless of what impels or leads.

Unchecked he hurries on, nor heeds the sorrow of the villagers from the triumphant cruelties of vengeful military force and punishment without remorse. Unchecked he journeys. Under law of inward occupation 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? O 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? 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 within himself, and found no rest. Calm liberty he could not gain, and yet the service was unblessed. His own life into danger brought by this sad burden, even that thought raised self-suspicion which was strong, swaying the brave man to his wrong. And how, unless it were the sense of all-disposing providence, its will intelligibly shown, finds he the banner in his hand, without a thought to such intent or conscious effort of his own. And no obstruction to prevent his father's wish and last command. And thus beset he heaved a sigh, remembering his own prophecy of utter desolation, made to Emily in the yew-tree shade. He sighed, submitting to the power, the might of that prophetic 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 on the second day he reached 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 scent, who, when the Nortons from the hand of death had drunk their punishment, bethought him, angry and ashamed, how Francis had the banner claimed, and with that 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! Behold 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, traitor dark and cowardly.

I am no traitor, Francis said, though this unhappy freight I bear. It weakens me, my heart hath bled till it is weak, but you beware, nor do a suffering spirit wrong. Whose self-reproaches are too strong. This he from the beaten road retreated towards a break of thorn, which like a place of vantage showed, and there stood bravely, though forlorn. In self-defence with a warrior's brow he stood, nor weaponless was now. He from a soldier's hand had snatched a spear, and with his eyes he watched their motions turning round and round. His weaker hand the banner held, And straight, by savage zeal impelled, forth rushed a pikeman, as if he, not without harsh indignity, would seize the same. Instinctively, to smite the offender, with his lance did Francis from the brake advance.

But from behind, a treacherous wound, unfeeling, brought him to the ground. A mortal stroke! O grief to tell! Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell. There did he lie of breath forsaken. The banner from his grasp was taken, and borne exultingly away, and the body was left on the ground where it lay.

Two days, as many nights, he slept alone, unnoticed and unwept, for at that time distress and fear possessed the country far and near. The third day, one who chanced to pass beheld him stretched upon the grass. A gentle forester was he, and of the Norton tenantry, and he had heard that by a train of horsemen Francis had been slain. Much was he troubled, for the man hath recognized his pallid face, and to the nearest huts he ran, and called the people to the place. How desolate is Rylestone Hall! Such was the instant thought of all. And if the lonely lady there should be, this sight she cannot bear. Such thoughts the forester expressed, and all were swayed, and deemed it best, that if the priest should yield assent, and join himself to their intent, then they, for Christian pity's sake, in holy ground a grave would make, that 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. So to the churchyard they abound, bearing the body on a bier in decency and humble cheer, and psalms are sung with holy sound.

But Emily hath raised her head, and is again disquieted. She must behold! So many gone! Where is the solitary one? And forth from Rylestone Hall steps she, to seek her brother. Forth she went, and tremblingly her course she bent, towards Bolton's ruined priory. She comes, and in the vale hath heard the funeral dirge. She sees the knot of people. Seize 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.

End of Canto VI.

8 07 - Canto Seventh 17:34

Thou spirit, whose angelic hand was to the harp a strong command, call 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, deep sunless dale, sea, desert, what do these avail? Oh, take her anguish and her fears into a calm recess of years.

"'Tis done. Despoil and desolation o' Rylestone's fair domain have blown. The walks and pools neglect hath 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. Perishing that mocks the gladness of the spring, and with this silent gloom agreeing, there is 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. There seated, may this maid be seen, among the ruins of a wood, erewhile a covert brightened green. And where full many a brave tree stood, that used to spread its boughs, and ring with the sweet bird's caroling, 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 mean. Her dress, her vest with woolen cincture tied, her 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 has been born, 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 moulded tree, a self-surviving leafless oak, but unregarded age from stroke of ravage saved, sat 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 of that band of rushing deer a single one in mid-career hath stopped and fixed its 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, stopped once again. But as no trace was found of anything to fear, even 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.

O moment ever blessed! O pear! Beloved of heaven, heaven's choicest care! This was for you a precious greeting, for both A bounteous, fruitful meeting. Joined are they, and the sylvan doe, can she depart, can she forgo 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 take this gift of heaven with grace?

That day, the first of a reunion, which was to team with High Communion, that day of balmy April weather, they tarried in the wood together, and when, ere fall of evening dew, she from the sylvan haunts 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 Rylestone brook with wharf is blended.

When Emily by morning light went forth, the doe was there in sight. She shrunk. With one frail shock of pain, received and followed by a prayer, did she behold, saw once again. Shun will she not, she feels, will bear, but wheresoever she looked round, all now was trouble-haunted ground. So doth the sufferer deem it good, even once again this neighbourhood to leave. Unwood, yet unforbidden, the white dough followed up the vale, up to another cottage, hidden in the deep fork of Ammerdale, and there may Emily restore herself. In spots unseen before. Why tell of mossy rock or tree, by lurking Denbrook'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 deed, endless history that lies in her silent follower's eyes, who with a power like human reason discerns the favorable season.

Skilled to approach or to retire from Luke's conceiving her desire, from Luke deportment, voice or mean, that vary to the heart within. If she too passionately writhed 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 kindly intercourse ensue. Sure it was 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 the whitest cloud on high, floating through the azure sky.

What now is left for pain or fear? That presence, dearer and more dear, did now a very gladness yield, that morning to the dewy field. While they side by side were straying, and the shepherd's pipe was playing, and with a deeper peace endued, The hour of moonlight's solitude.

With her companion in such frame of mind, to Ryleston back she came, and wandering through the wasted groves, received the memory of old loves, undisturbed and undistressed, into a soul which now was blessed with a soft spring day of holy, mild, delicious melancholy, not sunless gloom or unenlightened, But by tender fancies brightened.

When the bells of Rylestone played their Sabbath music, God us aid! That was the sound they seemed to speak. In scriptive legend, which I wean, 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 Rylestone seemed to say, while she sat listening in the shade, with vocal music, God as aid. 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 doth she climb to Norton Tower. And thence looks round her far and wide. Her fate there measures. All is stilled. The feeble 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 single creature. 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, move 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 manifold. Here 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 spotless thrall, a lovely youngling, white as foam, that it was brought to Rylestone Hall, Her youngest brother led it home, the youngest, then a lusty boy, brought home the prize, and with what 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 did she fear in the still moonshine to look upon St. Mary's shrine. Nor on the lonely turf that showed where Francis slept in his last abode. For that she came. There, often long, she sat in meditation strong, 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 her turn to meet that 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 frame 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, made of the blasted family, rose to the God from whom it came. In Ryleston Church her mortal frame was buried by her mother's side.

Most glorious sunset, and a ray survives, the twilight of this day, in that fair creature whom the fields support, and whom the forest shields, who, Having filled the 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 churchyard 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. Finds entrance through yon arch, where way lies open on the sabbath day. Here walks amid the mournful waste of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, and floors encumbered with rich show of fretwork imagery laid low.

Paces softly, or makes halts by fractured cell or tomb or vault, by plate of monumental brass. Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, and sculptured forms of warriors brave. But chiefly by that single grave, that once sequestered hillock green, the pensive visitant is seen. There doth the gentle creature lie, with those adversities unmoved, calm spectacle by earth and sky in their benignity approved. And I, methinks, this hoary pile, Subdued by outrage and decay, looked down upon her with a smile, a gracious smile that seems to say, Thou, thou art not a child of time, but daughter of the eternal prime.

End of Canto VII

9 08 - The Force of Prayer 3:14

The Force of Prayer, or The Founding of Bolton Priory, a Tradition. What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale, and their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring, when prayer is of no avail? What is good for a bootless bene? The falconer to the lady said, and she made answer, endless sorrow, for she knew that her son was dead. She knew it from the falconer's words, and from the look of the falconer's eye, and from the love which was in her soul for her youthful Romilly. Young Romilly, through Barden Woods, is ranging high and low, and holds a greyhound in a leash, to let slip upon Book or Doe. And the pair have reached that fearful chasm, how tempting to be stride, for Lordly Wharf is there pent in, with rocks on either side.

The striding-place is called the Strid, a name which it took of yore. A thousand years hath it borne that name, and shall a thousand more. And hither is young Romilly come, and what may now forbid, that he, perhaps for the hundredth time, shall bound across the Strid. He sprang in glee, for what cared he that the river was strong and the rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the leash hung back, and checked him in his leap. The boy is in the arms of Worf, and strangled with merciless force, for never more was young Romilly seen, till he rose a lifeless course. Now is there stillness in the vale, and long unspeaking sorrow. Worf shall be to pitying hearts. A name more sad than Yarrow. If for a lover the lady wept, a solace she might borrow, from death and from the passion of death, old wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding day, which was to be tomorrow. Her hope was a farther-looking hope, and hers is a mother's sorrow. He was a tree that stood alone, proudly did its branches wave, and the root of this delightful tree. Was in her husband's grave. Long, long in darkness did she sit, and her first words were, Let there be in Bolton, on the field of Wharf, a stately priory. The stately priory was reared, and Wharf, as he moved along, to Matins joined a mournful voice, nor failed at Evensong. And the lady prayed in heaviness, that looked not for relief, but slowly did her succour come. and a patience to her grief. Oh, there is never sorrow of heart that shall lack a timely end, if but to God we turn, and ask of Him to be our friend.

10 09 - Notes 30:11

Notes The poem of The White Doe of Ryleston is founded on a local tradition, and on the ballad in Percy's collection entitled The Rising of the North. The tradition is as follows. About this time, not long after the dissolution, A white doe, say the aged people of the neighbourhood, long continued to make a weekly pilgrimage from Rylestone over the fells of Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey churchyard during divine service, after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the rest of the congregation. Dr. Whittaker's History of the Deanery of Craven. Rylestone was the property and residence of the Noughtons, distinguished in that ill-advised and unfortunate insurrection Which led me to connect with this tradition the principal circumstances of their fate, as recorded in the ballad which I have thought it proper to annex.

The Rising in the North. The subject of this ballad is the great northern insurrection in the twelfth year of Elizabeth, 1569, which proved so fatal to Thomas Percy, the seventh Earl of Northumberland. There had not long before been a secret negotiation entered into Between some of the Scottish and English nobility, to bring about a marriage between Mary Queen of Scots, at that time a prisoner in England, and the Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman of excellent character. This match was proposed to all the most considerable of the English nobility, and among the rest, to the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, two noblemen very powerful in the North. As it seemed to promise a speedy and safe conclusion of the troubles in Scotland, With many advantages to the Crown of England, they all consented to it, provided it should prove agreeable to Queen Elizabeth.

The Earl of Leicester, Elizabeth's favourite, undertook to break the matter to her, but before he could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. The Duke of Norfolk, with several of his friends, was committed to the Tower, and summons were sent to the Northern Earls instantly. It is said that the Earl of Northumberland, who is a man of mild and gentle nature, Camden expressly says that he was violently attached to the Catholic religion, was deliberating with himself whether he should not obey the message and rely upon the Queen's candour and clemency when he was forced into desperate measures by a sudden report at midnight, November 14, that a party of his enemies were come to seize his person.

The Earl was then at his house at Topcliffe in Yorkshire, when, rising hastily out of bed, he withdrew to the Earl of Westmoreland at Branspeth, where the country came into them and pressed them to take up arms in their own defence. They accordingly set up their standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient religion, to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, etc. Their common banner. On which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of Christ, was borne by an ancient gentleman, Richard Norton Esquire, who, with his sons, among whom Christopher, Marmaduke and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden, distinguished himself on this occasion.

Having entered Durham, they tore the Bible, etc., and caused mass to be said there. They then marched on to Clifford Moor near Weatherby, where they mustered their men.

The two earls who spent their large estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that account, were masters of little ready money. The Earl of Northumberland bringing with him only eight thousand crowns, and the Earl of Westmoreland nothing at all for the subsistence of their forces, they were not able to march to London as they had first intended. In these circumstances, Westmoreland began so visibly to despond that many of his men slunk away. Though Northumberland still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till December 13th, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord Hunsdon and others, having marched out of York at the head of a large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army under the command of Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, the insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there dismissing their followers, made their escape into Scotland.

Though this insurrection had been suppressed with so little bloodshed, the Earl of Sussex and Sir George Bowes, Marshal of the Army, put vast numbers to death by martial law, without any regular trial. The former of these caused at Durham sixty-three constables to be hanged at once, and the latter made his boast that for sixty miles in length and forty in breadth betwixt Newcastle and Wetherby there was hardly a town or village wherein he had not executed some of the inhabitants. This exceeds the cruelties practised in the West after Monmouth's rebellion. Such is the account collected from Stowe, Speed, Camden, Guthrie, Carte, and Rappin. It agrees in most particulars with the following ballad, apparently the production of some northern minstrel.

Listen, lively lordlings all, live and listen unto me, and I will sing of a noble earl, the noblest earl in the north country. Earl Percy is into his garden gone, and after him walks his fair lady. I heard a bird sing in mine ear, that I must either fight or flee. Now heaven forfend, my dearest lord, that ever such harm should hap to thee, but go to London to the court, and fair fall truth and honesty. Now, nay, now, nay, my lady gay, alas, thy counsel suits not me. Mine enemies prevail so fast. O, go to the court yet, good my lord, and take thy gallant men with thee. If any dare to do you wrong, then your warrant they may be. Now, nay, now, nay, thou lady fair, the court is full of subtlety, and if I go to the court, lady, nevermore I may thee see.

Yet go to the court, my lord, she says, and I myself will ride with thee. At court then for my dearest lord. His faithful borrow I will be. Now, nay, now, nay, my lady dear, far leave her had I lose my life, than leave among my cruel foes my love in jeopardy and strife. But come thou hither, my little foot-page, come thou hither unto me, to Meister Norton thou must go, in all the haste that ever may be. Commend me to that gentleman, and bear this letter here from me, and say that earnestly, I pray, he will ride in my company. One while the little foot-page went, and another while he ran, until he came to his journey's end, the little foot-page never blan. When to that gentleman he came, down he kneeled on his knee, and took the letter betwixt his hands, and let the gentleman it see.

And when the letter it was read, afore that goodly company, I wiss if you the truth would know, there was many a weeping eye. He said, Come thither, Christopher Norton. A gallant youth thou seem to be. What dost thou counsel me, my son, now that the good earl's in jeopardy? Father, my counsel's fair and free. That earl, he is a noble lord, and whatsoever to him you hight, I would not have you break your word. Gra mercy, Christopher, my son, thy counsel well it liketh me, and if we speed and scape with life, well advanced shalt thou be. Come you hither, my nine good sons, gallant men I trow you be, how many of you, my children dear, will stand by that good earl and me? Eight of them did answer make, eight of them spake hastily, O Father, till the day we die we'll stand by that good earl and thee.

Gram mercy now, my children dear, you show yourselves right, bold, and brave, and whereso'er I live or die, a Father's blessing you shall have. But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton? Thou art mine eldest son and heir. Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast, whatever it be, to me declare. Father, you are an aged man. Your head is white, your beard is grey. It were a shame at these your years for you to rise in such a fray. Now fight upon thee, coward Francis! Thou never learn'st this of me. When thou wert young and tender of age, why did I make so much of thee? But, father, I will wend with you, unarmed and naked will I be, and he that strikes against the crown, ever an ill death may he dee. Then rose that reverend gentleman, and with him came a goodly band, to join with the brave Earl Percy, and all the flowerer Northumberland.

With them the noble Neville came, the Earl of Westmoreland was he. At Wetherby they mustered their host, thirteen thousand fair to see. Lord Westmoreland his ancient raised, the Dun Bull he raised on high, and three dogs with golden colours were there set out most royally. Earl Percy there his ancient spread, the half-moon shining all so fair, the Norton's ancient had the cross, and the five wounds our Lord did bear. Then Sir George Bowes he straightway rose, after them some spoil to make. Those noble earls turned back again, and aye they vowed that knight to take. That baron he to his castle fled, to Barnard Castle. Then fled he. The uttermost walls were eath to win. The earls have won them presently.

The uttermost walls were lime and brick, but though they won them soon anon, longer they wan their innermost walls, for they were cut in rock and stone. Then news unto leave London came, in all the speed that ever might be, and word is brought to our royal queen, of the rising in the north country. Her grace she turned her round about, and like a royal queen she swore, I will ordain them such a breakfast as never was in the north before. She caused thirty thousand men be raised, with horse and harness fair to see. She caused thirty thousand men be raised to take the earls of the north country. With them the false earl Warwick went, Earl Sussex, and the Lord Hunsdon, until they to York Castle came.

I wist they never stint, ne'blan. Now spread thy ancient, Westmoreland, thy dun bull fain would we spy, and thou the earl of Northumberland, now raise thy half-moon on high. But the Dun Bull is fled and gone, and the half-moon vanished away. The earls, though they were brave and bold, against so many could not stay. Thee, Norton, with thine eight good sons, they doomed to die, alas, for Ruth. By reverend locks thee could not save, nor them their fair and blooming youth. With them full many a gallant wight, they cruelly bereaved of life. And many a child made fatherless, and widowed many a tender wife.

Bolton Priory, says Dr. Whittaker in his excellent book, The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven, stands upon a beautiful curvature of the wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated to protect it from inundations, and low enough for every purpose of picturesque effect. Opposite to the east window of the Priory Church, The river washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicular, and of the richest purple, where several of the mineral beds which break out, instead of maintaining their usual inclination to the horizon, are twisted by some inconceivable process into undulating and spiral lines. To the south, all is soft and delicious. The eye reposes upon a few rich pastures. A moderate reach of the river, sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, And the bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude, even in winter, any portion of his rays.

But after all, the glories of Bolton are on the north. Whatever the most fastidious taste could require to constitute a perfect landscape is not only found here, but in its proper place. In front and immediately under the eye is a smooth expanse of park-like enclosure. Spotted with native elm, ash, etc., of the finest growth. On the right, a skirting oak wood with jutting points of grey rock. On the left, a rising copse. Still forward, I seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries. And farther yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon Seat and Barden Fell, contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of the valley below. About a half-mile above Bolton, the valley closes, and either side of the wharf is overhung by solemn woods from which huge perpendicular masses of grey rock jut out at intervals.

This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible, till of late, that ridings have been cut on both sides of the river, and the most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the woods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and burst through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the wharf. There the wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and next becomes a horned flood, enclosing a woody island. Sometimes it reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native character, lively, irregular and impetuous.

The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous strid. This chasm Being incapable of receiving the winter floods, has formed on either side a broad strand of naked gritstone, full of rock basins or pots of the lynn, which bear witness to the restless impetuosity of so many northern torrents. But if here wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its deep and solemn roar, like the voice of the angry spirit of the waters, heard far above and beneath. amidst the silence of the surrounding woods. The terminating object of the landscape is the remains of Bardon Tower, interesting from their form and situation, and still more so from the recollections which they excite. Canto First. From Bolton's old monastic tower.

It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton Abbey wants this ornament, but the poem According to the imagination of the poet, is composed in Queen Elizabeth's time. Formerly, says Dr. Whittaker, over the transept was a tower. This is proved not only from the mention of bells at the dissolution, when they could have had no other place, but from the pointed roof of the choir, which must have terminated westward in some building of superior height to the ridge.

A RURAL CHAPEL NEATLY DRESSED The nave of the church having been reserved at the dissolution for the use of the Saxton Cure is still a parochial chapel, and at this day is as well kept as the neatest English cathedral, who sat in the shade of the Prior's Oak. At a small distance from the great gateway stood the Prior's Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, and sold for seventy pounds. According to the price of wood at that time, It could scarcely have contained less than 1,400 feet of timber. When Lady Aliza mourned. The detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. Whittaker's book, and in the foregoing poem, The Force of Prayer, etc.

Pass, pass, who will, yon chantry door. At the east end of the north isle of Bolton Priory Church is a chantry belonging to Bethmesley Hall. And a vault where, according to tradition, the Claphams, who inherited this estate by the female line from the Morliverers, were interred upright. John de Clapham, of whom this ferocious act is recorded, was a name of great note in his time. He was a vehement partisan of the House of Lancaster, in whom the spirit of his chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive.

Who loved the shepherd lord to meet? In the second volume of poems published by the author will be found one entitled, Song at the Feast of Broome Castle, upon the restoration of Lord Clifford the Shepherd to the estates and honours of his ancestors. To that poem is annexed an account of this personage, chiefly extracted from Burns and Nicholson's History of Cumberland and Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to add these further particulars concerning him from Dr. Whittaker, who says, He retired to the solitude of Bardon, where he seems to have enlarged the tower out of a common keeper's lodge, and where he found a retreat, equally favourable to taste, to instruction and to devotion. The narrow limits of his residence show that he had learned to despise the pomp of greatness, and that a small train of servants could suffice him who had lived to the age of thirty a servant himself.

I think this nobleman resided here almost entirely when in Yorkshire, for all his charters which I have seen are dated at Barden. His early habits and the want of those artificial measures of time, which even shepherds now possess, had given him a turn for observing the motions of the heavenly bodies, and, having purchased such an apparatus as could then be procured, he amused and informed himself by those pursuits with the aid of the canons of Bolton. Some of whom are said to have been well versed in what was then known of the science. I suspect this nobleman to have been sometimes occupied in a more visionary pursuit, and probably in the same company, for, from the family evidences, I have met with two manuscripts on the subject of alchemy, which, from the character spelling etc., may almost certainly be referred to the reign of Henry VII.

If these were originally deposited with the manuscripts of the Cliffords, It might have been for the use of this nobleman. If they were brought from Bolton at the dissolution, they must have been the work of those canons whom he almost exclusively conversed with. In these peaceful employments, Lord Clifford spent the whole reign of Henry VII, and the first years of his son. But in the year, 1513, when almost sixty years old, He was appointed to a principal command over the army which fought at Flodden, and showed that the military genius of the family had neither been chilled in him by age, nor extinguished by habits of peace. He survived the Battle of Flodden ten years, and died April 23, 1523, aged about seventy.

I shall endeavour to appropriate to him a tomb, vault, and chantry in the choir of the church of Bolton, as I should be sorry to believe that he was deposited when dead at a distance from the place which in his lifetime he loved so well. By his last will he appointed his body to be interred at Shapp if he died in Westmoreland, or at Bolton if he died in Yorkshire. With respect to the canons of Bolton, Dr. Whittaker shows from manuscripts That not only alchemy but astronomy was a favourite pursuit with them. Canto III. Ye watchmen upon Branspeth Towers. Branspeth Castle stands near the River Weir, a few miles from the city of Durham. It formerly belonged to the Neville's, Earls of Westmoreland.

See Dr. Percy's account.

Of might of Thurston, what a host he conquered! See the historians for the account of this memorable battle, usually denominated the Battle of the Standard.

In that other day of Neville's Cross. In the night before the Battle of Durham was strucken and begun, the 17th day of October, anno 1346, there did appear to John Fosser, then prior of the Abbey of Durham, commanding him to take the Holy Corporax cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the chalice, When he used to say Mass, and to put the same holy relic like to a banner cloth upon the point of a spear, and the next morning to go and repair to a place on the west side of the city of Durham called the Red Hills, where the Maid's Bower want to be, and there to remain and abide till the end of the battle, to which vision, the prior obeying, and taking the same for a revelation of God's grace and mercy by the mediation of Holy St.

Cuthbert, Did accordingly the next morning, with the monks of the said Abbey, repair to the said Red Hills, and there, most devoutly humbling and prostrating themselves in prayer for the victory in the said battle, a great multitude of the Scots running and pressing by them, with intention to have spoiled them, yet had no power to commit any violence under such holy persons, so occupied in prayer, being protected and defended by the mighty providence of Almighty God, and by the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, and the presence of the Holy Relic. And after many conflicts and warlike exploits, there had and done between the Englishmen and the King of Scots and his company, the said battle ended, and the victory was obtained, to the great overthrow and confusion of the Scots, their enemies.

And then, the said Prior and Monks, accompanied with Ralph Lord Neville, and John Neville his son, And the Lord Percy and many other nobles of England returned home and went to the Abbey Church, there joining in hearty prayer and thanksgiving to God and Holy St. Cuthbert for the victory achieved that day. This battle was afterwards called the Battle of Neville's Cross from the following circumstance. On the west side of the city of Durham, where two roads pass each other, A most notable, famous and goodly cross of stonework was erected, and set up to the honour of God for the victory there obtained in the field of battle, and known by the name of Neville's Cross, and built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Neville, one of the most excellent and chief persons in the said battle.

The relic of St. Cuthbert afterwards became of great importance in military events, for soon after this battle, says the same author, The prior caused a goodly and sumptuous banner to be made, which is then described at great length, and in the midst of the same banner-cloth was the said holy relic and corporaxe-cloth, enclosed, etc., etc., and so sumptuously finished, and absolutely perfected. This banner was dedicated to Holy St. Cuthbert of intent and purpose, that for the future it should be carried to any battle as occasion should serve. And was never carried and showed at any battle but by the especial grace of God Almighty and the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert. It brought home victory, which Bannercloth, after the dissolution of the Abbey, fell into the possession of Dean Whittingham, whose wife was called Catherine.

Being a Frenchwoman, as is most credibly reported by eyewitnesses, did most injuriously burn the same in her fire. To the open contempt and disgrace of all ancient and goodly relics. Extracted from a book entitled Durham Cathedral as it stood before the dissolution of the monastery, it appears from the old metrical history that the above-mentioned banner was carried by the Earl of Surrey to Floddenfield. Canto Fifth. An edifice of warlike frame stands single, Norton Tower its name. It is so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whittaker. Ryleston Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old warfare between the Nortons and Cliffords. On a point of very high ground, commanding an immense prospect, and protected by two deep ravines, are the remains of a square tower, expressly said by Doddsworth to have been built by Richard Norton.

The walls are of strong grout work, about four feet thick. It seems to have been three stories high. Breaches have been industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, to render it untenable. But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure-house in summer, as there are, adjoining to it, several large mounds, two of them are pretty entire, of which no other account can be given than that they were butts for large companies of archers. The place is savagely wild. And admirably adapted to the uses of a watchtower. Canto VII. Despoil and desolation, or Ryleston's fair domain, have blown. After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates were forfeited to the Crown, where they remained to the second or third of James.

They were then granted to Francis, Earl of Cumberland. From an accurate survey made at that time, several particulars have been extracted by Dr. W. It appears that the mansion-house was then in decay. Immediately adjoining is a close, called the Vivary, so called undoubtedly from the French vivier, or modern Latin vivarium, for there are near the house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were introduced in the earlier part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary works, fish-bonds, an island, etc. The whole township was ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer, the property of the Lord. Which, together with the wood, had, after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been committed to Sir Stephen Tempest.

The wood, it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, before which time it appears that the neighbourhood must have exhibited a forest-like and sylvan scene. In this survey, among the old tenants, is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with his master, and was executed at Ripon. In the deep fork of Ammerdale. At the extremity of the parish of Burnsell, the Valley of Wharf forks off into two great branches, one of which retains the name of Wharfdale, to the source of the river. The other is usually called Lyttondale, but more anciently and properly Ammerdale. Durnbrook, which runs along an obscure valley from the north-west, is derived from a Teutonic word signifying concealment.

Dr. Whittaker. When the bells of Ryleston played their Sabbath music, God us aid. On one of the bells of Ryleston Church, which seems co-evil with the building of the tower, is this cipher, J.N., for John Norton, and the motto, God us aid.

The grassy rock encircled pound, which is thus described by Dr. Whittaker. On the plain summit of the hill are the foundations of a strong wall. Stretching from the south-west to the north-east corner of the tower, and to the edge of a very deep glen. From this glen, a ditch several hundred yards long runs south to another deep and rugged ravine. On the north and west, where the banks are very steep, no wall or mound is discoverable, paling being the only fence that would stand on such ground. From the minstrelsy of the Scottish border, It appears that such pounds for deer, sheep, etc., were far from being uncommon in the south of Scotland. The principle of them was something like that of a wire mouse-trap.

On the declivity of a steep hill, the bottom and sides of which were fenced so as to be impassable, a wall was constructed nearly level with the surface on the outside, yet so high within that without wings it was impossible to escape in the opposite direction. Care was probably taken that these enclosures should contain better feed than the neighbouring parks or forests, and whoever is acquainted with the habits of these sequacious animals will easily conceive that if the leader was once tempted to descend into the snare, an herd would follow.

I cannot conclude without recommending, to the notice of all lovers of beautiful scenery, Bolton Abbey and its neighbourhood. This enchanting spot belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and the superintendence of it has for some years been entrusted to the Reverend William Carr, who has most skilfully opened out its features, and in whatever he has added has done justice to the place by working with an invisible hand of art in the very spirit of nature.

queue_music Chapters 10