Puslapio vaizdai
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From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath;
Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,-
High-ribb'd 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, re-appearing, she no less
To the open day gives blessedness.
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair pilgrim! harbours she a sense
Of sorrow, or of reverence?

Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crush'd as if by wrath divine-

For what survives of house where God
Was worshipp'd, 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 ornament,-
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 stretch'd alone;
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation press'd,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast:
Methinks she passeth by the sight,
As a common creature might;
If she be doom'd 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 anchor'd 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
Couch'd 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:

As if in some respect of pride;

Or melancholy's 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 blush'd for joy,
A shame-faced blush of glowing red!
Again the mother whisper'd low,
"Now you have seen the famous doe;
From Rylstone 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 hallow'd place.
Nor to the child's inquiring mind
Is such perplexity confined:
For, spite of sober truth, that sees
A world of fix'd 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 bread,
And heard old tales by the convent fire,
And lately hath brought home the scars
Gather'd in long and distant wars),
That old man-studious to expound
The spectacle-hath mounted high
To days of dim antiquity;
When Lady Aäliza mourn'd
Her son, and felt in her despair,
The pang of unavailing prayer;

Her son in Wharf's abysses drown'd,

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 laid low;

To the grief of her soul that doth come and go,

In the beautiful form of this innocent doe;

Which, though seemingly doom'd in its breast to sustain

A soften'd 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 Mauleverers 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 dragg'd Earl Pembroke from Banbury church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
Look down among them, if; you dare;

Oft does the white doe loiter there,
Prying into the darksome rent;
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 wanderings 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.

"Twas 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 show'd 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 Flodden field,

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 Clifford wish'd 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 undisturb'd repose of heart.
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.

Harp! we have been full 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, harp! thy murmurs may not cease,Thou hast breeze-like visitings;

For a spirit with angel wings

Hath touch'd 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!

CANTO SECOND.

THE harp in lowliness obey'd;

And first we sang of the greenwood 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 unextinguish'd light,—
Her last companion, in a dearth
Of love, upon a hopeless earth.

For she it was, 'twas she who wrought

Meekly, with foreboding thought,
In vermeil colours and in gold,

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