 The White Dough of Ryleston, by William Wordsworth This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The White Dough of Ryleston, or the Fate of the Nortons, a poem, by William Wordsworth London, printed for Longman Hearst, Reese, Orm and Brown, Peter Noster Rowe, by James Ballantine 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 Dough, founded upon a tradition connected with the place, was composed at the close of the same year. Weak is the will of man, his judgments 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 Hearst to pluck the amaranthine flower of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind wreaths that endure afflictions 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 maleo 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 assureseth himself upon divine protection and favour, gathereth the force and faith which human nature in itself could not obtain. Lord Bacon, in trellis 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 Euna, sad of soul, in sad attire, the gentle Euna, 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 pangan merited. 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 dissolved 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 grief's whose airy motion comes not near, the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel. Then, with mild eunuch 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, to this song of mine, once more could please, where anguish, strangers' 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 amid life's ordinary woes, hence not for them unfitted who would bless a happy hour with holier happiness. He serves the muses, earingly 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. RIDAL MOUNT, WESTMALAND, APRIL 20TH, 1815 END OF FRONT MATTER CANTOW FIRST OF THE WHITE DOE OF RYLESTON by William Wordsworth This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 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 veil 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 budded brooms. Path or no path, what care they, and thus in joyous mood they hide, 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 wants to call to mass, or some high festival, and in the shattered fabric's heart remaineth one protected part. A rural chapel, neatly dressed, incovert like a little nest, and thither young and old repair, this sabbath day for praise and prayer. Fast the churchyard fills, and on look again, and they are all gone, the cluster round the porch, and the folk who sat in the shade of the priors oak, and scarcely have they disappeared ere the prelusive hymns heard. With one consents the people rejoice, filling the church with a lofty voice. They sing a service which they feel, but is 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, but 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 young 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 dune, 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. It is a work for sabbathours 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 at the spread of the elder's bushy head, some jealous and forbidding cell that doth the living stars repel and where no flower hath left to dwell. The presence of this wandering dough fills many a damp obscure recess with the 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 voter's task, right to perform or boon to ask. Fair pilgrim, harbour she a sense of sorrow or a reverence. Can she be grieved for choir or shrine, crushed as if by wrath divine? The what survives of house where God was worshipped or where man abode, for all 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. We think she passes 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 to that 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, dost 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 barmy 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 departing song, and from the temple forth they throng and quickly spread themselves abroad while each pursues his several road, but some variegated band of middle-aged and old and young, and little children by the hand upon their leading mother's hung, turn with a bassence 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, drawn here. 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 shame-faced blush of glowing red. Again the mother whispered low, now you have seen the famous doe from Ryleston. She hath found her way over the hills this sabbath day, her work, what ere it be, is done, and she will depart when we are gone. Thus doth she keep from year to year her sabbath morning, fowl or fair. This whisper soft repeats what he had known from early infancy, bright as 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 standards by, could tell a tragic history, her 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 circuits of this hallowed place. Nor to the child's inquiring mind is such perplexity confined, the 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, her 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 clappams and mollevarus stand, and in his place, among sun and sire, is John the 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 Bambary 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 dark some 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, to a said that she all shapes could wear, and often times 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 flood and 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 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 a Bolton's dear fraternity, who, standing on this old church tower, in many a calm, propitious hour, perused with him the starry sky, and in their cells with him did pry for other law, through strong desire searching the earth with chemic fire, but they and their good works have 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 in part an undisturbed repose of hearts, and all the assembly own a law of orderly respects 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 of mercy and a spirit's hand, a voice is with us, a command to chance in strains of heavenly glory, a tale of tears, a mortal story. End of Canto First Canto Second of the White Dough of Rylston by William Wordsworth This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The harp in lowliness obeyed, and first we sang of the green wood shade which was solitary made, beginning where the song must end with her and with her silver friend, the friend who stood before her sight, her only unextinguished lights, her last companion in a dearth of love upon a hopeless earth. For she it was, to a she who wrought meekly with verboding thought in vermal colours and in gold, and in gold-colored work, which, standing by her father did with joy behold, exulting in the imagery, a banner won 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 floats in rueful company. In 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 purses and in nevels' right, to Earl's fast-leagued indiscontent who gave their wishes open vents and boldly urged a general plea, the rites 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 Ryleston Hall. It came, had 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. Be think 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 meets that I endure your scorn, I am your son, your eldest born, but not for lordship of a 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, best thy father's name, keep thou this end-sign till the day when I of thee require the same, thy place beyond 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 straight away all followed him, a gallant band. Fourth, when sire and sons appeared, a gratulating shout was reared, with din of arms and a minstrelse, from all his warlike tenantry, all hoarsed 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 post and 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's 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? Oh, hide them from each other, hide kind heaven, this pair severely tried. He saw her, where, in open view, she sat beneath the spreading you, 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, assire, the acts were justified 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, how it tears to-day may fall, as at an innocent funeral. In deep and awful channel runs this sympathy of sire and sons, and tried 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 you can feel a smile, 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, presumed 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 won the pensive marmaduke, me thought 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 stifle 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 fusswear, but I, in body, will be there, unarmed and naked will I go, be at their side, come wheel or woe. On kind occasions I may wait, see, hear, obstruct or mitigate, bare breast I take, and their 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 our 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. It is meets 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, all for that. Weep if that aid thee, but depend upon no help of outward friend. Espouse thy doom at once, and leave to fortitude without reprieve. For we must fall, both we and ours. This mansion, these pleasant bowers. Walks, pools, and harbours, homestead, all, 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 Ryleston 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 wheel 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 been prepared, if thou art beautiful, and youth and thought and duty 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 II Canto III of the White Door of Ryleston by William Wordsworth This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Now joy for you, and sudden cheer, ye watchmen upon Bransbeth 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 pronounced the word, and the earls describe forthwith the armed company, marching down the banks of Weir. Said fearless Norton to the pair, gone forth to hail him on the plain. This meeting, noble lords, looks fair. I bring with me a goodly train. The hearts are with you. Hill and Dale have helped us. Your we crossed and swail, and horse and harness followed. See, the best part of their yomenry. Stand forth, my sons. These eight are mine, whom to this service I commend. Which way so ere are 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 hating kind through all things else, and this can find a mutual hope, a common mind, and plots and pants 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, for 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 spring-eye from an ancient hearth, these records wrought in pledge of love by hands of noign noble birth, a maid o'er whom the blessed dove vouchsafed in gentleness to brood, while she the holy work pursued. Uplift the standard was the cry from all the listeners that stood round, plant it, by this we live or die. The Norton ceased not for that sound, but said, the prayer which he 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 emblazony, 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 shined in warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne at Purse'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, retainers all of Neville at their master's call, had sat together in rabie hall, such strength that earld them held of yore, nor wanted at this time rich store of well-appointed chivalry. Not loath the sleepy lanster-wield, and greets the old paternal shield, they heard the summons, and furthermore came foots and horsemen of each degree, unbound by pledge of fealty. Appeared with free and open hate of novelties in church and state, Knight, Berger, Yeoman and Esquire are the Romish priests in priest's attire, and thus in arms a zealous band proceeding on a joint command to Durham first their course they bear, and in St. Cuthbert's ancient seat sang mass, and tore the book of prayer, and trod the Bible beneath their feet. Then smarching 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 buckle a small, stood by their sire on Cliffordmore, in youthful beauty flourishing to guard the standard which he bore. With feats 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 undipressed in size, and bent, which rather seemed to rise in open victory, or the weight of seventy years, to a higher height. Magnific limbs of withered state, 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 hunters 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 half-none, and treads in solitary ways. He, following where so ere 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, he on heath his spot, he takes this day his far-off stand, with breast unmailed, on weapon hand. All 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 mantles' help to find a shelter from the nipping wind, and thus, with short oblivion blessed, 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, with a chieftain's bent, but what avails the bold intent, a royal army has gone forth to quell the rising of the north. They march with Dudley at their head, and his seven-day space will to York be led. Can such a mighty host be raised, thus suddenly, and brought so near? He urls 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. Their way to favourable hour until Lord Dacre, with his power, from Nayworth 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 nought and sought the chieftains to unfold his thoughts, and thus abruptly spake. We yield, and can it be, an unfought field, how often have the strength of heaven to few triumphantly been given. Still do our very children boast of mighty thirst, and what a host he conquered! So are we not the plain, and flying shall behold again, where faith was proved. While to battle moved, the standard on the sacred wane, on which the grey-haired barren stood, and the infant's air of Moebrae's blood beneath the saintly ensigns three, their confidence and victory. Shall Percy blush then, for his name must Westmilland be asked with shame, whose will the numbers wear 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 maidens' bower, lest would not at our need be due to us who war against the untrue. The delegates of heaven we rise, convoked the empires 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, so the frail clouds are 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 as thousands brave as they. So speaking he upraised his head towards that imagery once more, but the familiar prospect shed despondency and felt 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 words to that mute animal, the white doe in the hawthorn break. 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, in the cold grave have long been laid. From reasons 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, whence 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 discounteners can do no injury may come to you. Though in your cause no part I bear your indignation I can share and grieve 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 for the 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 equippage 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 spots withdrew the like endeavours to renew should air a kindlier time ensue. End of Canto Third Canto Fourth of the White Doe of Ryleston by William Wordsworth This Librivox recording is in the public domain. From cloudless aether 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 teas 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 a venerable image yields of quiet to the neighbouring fields while from one pillar chimney breathes the silver smoke and amounts in wreaths. The courts are hushed for timely sleep the greyhounds to their kennel creep the peacock in the broad ashtree aloft is roosted for the night he who in proud prosperity of colours manifold and bright walked round affronting the daylights and hires still above the bower where he is perched from yon lone tower the whole 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 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 low not distant far the milk white dough the same fair creature which was nigh feeding in tranquility when francis uttered to the maid his last words in the yutri shade the same fair creature who had 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 darks and vows on either side in open moonlight doth she lie happy as others of her kind that's 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 dough 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 have seen by the shepherd is passed by with an inattentive eye nor more regard doth she bestow upon the uncomplaining dough yet the meat creature was not free erewhile from some perplexity the thrice as 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 gainsaid oh welcome to the viewless breeze it is fraught with acceptable feeling and instantaneous sympathies into the sufferer's bosom stealing ere she hath reached yon rustic shed hung with late flowering woodbind 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 pendants woodbind 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 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 to get 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 oh thou angel from above thou spirit of maternal love that studs'd before my eyes more clear than ghosts are fabled to appear sent upon embosses of fear thou thy presence has 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 empowered retreat where she had found a grateful seat perturbed she issues she will go herself will follow to the war and clasp her father's knees and oh 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 or 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 writes of 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 has ceased to rave or let them cross the river tweed 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 it is all I ask she spake and from the ladies 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 and how besieging Barnard's towers grants 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 when sidle fears a needless pain and wishes blind and efforts vain their flights 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 made but dark and dismal is the vaults where Norton and his sons are laid disastrous issue he had said this night young haughty towers must yield or we forever 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 to us 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 to his one they shout 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 here the moon had sunk to rest in her pale chambers of the west that rash levy naught remained End of Canto 4th Canto 5th of the White Doe of Rylston by William Wordsworth this LibriVox recording is in the public domain high on a point of rugged ground among the wastes of Rylston fell of 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 Luke's round or path and road and plain and dell dark moor and gleam of pool and stream upon a prospect without bound the summits of this bold ascent though bleak and bare welled and free as Pendle Hill or Penigent from wind or frost or vapor's wet had often heard the sound of glee when there the youthful Nortons met to practice 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 watchtower did repair comodious pleasure house and there would mirth run round with generous fare and the stern old lord of Rylston Hall he was the proudest of them all but now his child with anguish pale upon the heights walks to and fro it is well that she have 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 and extremity for she had hoped had hoped and feared such rights did female nature claim and after steps had hitherto 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 were 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 who said that Francis lives he is not dead your noble brother hath been spared to take his life they have not dead on him and on his high endeavour the light of praise shall shine forever nor did he such heaven's 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 boy till every pang was passed 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 it is well for he the worst defied natural piety he rose not in this quarrel he his father and his brothers would both for their own and countries 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's burned within him instantly returned he was commanding and then treating and said we need not stop my son but I will end what is begun to his matter which I do not fear to entrust to any living here and so to Francis he renewed his words more calmly thus pursued my disar enterprise of sped change wide and deep the land had seen a renovation from the dead a spring tide of immortal green the dark some altars would have blazed like stars when clouds are rolled away salvation to all eyes that's gazed once more the rude had been appraised to spread its arms and stand for I 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 pomper raid 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 am part my son the last wish of my heart the banner strived out to regain and if the endeavor be not vain bear it to whom if not to thee shall I this lonely thought can sign 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 sights yea offered up this beautiest brood this fair unrivaled brotherhood and turned away from thee my son and left but be the rest on said 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 oh wherefore should I fear to tell oh 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 height in Rylston's woeful neighborhood he told and often times with voice of power to encourage or rejoice the deepest sorrows that aspire go high no transport ever hire yet yet in this affliction said the old man to the silence made yet a 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 Rylston Hall her way she took end of canto fifth canto sixth of the white-dough of Rylston by William Wordsworth this Librivox recording is in the public domain 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 fleets 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 impells 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 had he done what's promise made oh weak weak moment to what end can such a vain oblation tend and he the bearer can he go carrying this instrument of woe and find find anywhere a right to excuse him in his country's sight 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 yutri 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 wheel 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 veil 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 space made halt but hark a noise behind of horsemen at an eager pace he heard and with misgiving mind Tissa George Bose who leads the band they come by cruel Sussex scent who when the nortons from the hand of death had drunk their punishment be thought him angry and ashamed how Francis had the banner claimed and with that charge had disappeared by all the standards 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 so ever 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-defense 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 break advance but from behind a treacherous wound unfeeling brought him to the ground a mortal stroke oh grief to tell thus thus the noble Francis fell there did he lie of breath forsaken the banner from his grasp was taken and born 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 chance to pass beheld him stretched upon the grass a gentle forester was he and of the nought and tenantry and he had heard that by a train of horsemen Francis had been slain much was he troubled for the man hath recognised his pallid face and to the nearest hut he ran and called the people to the place how desolate is Ryleston 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 was swayed and deemed its best that if the priest should yield ascent and join himself to their intent then they for Christian pity's sake in holy ground a grave would make that straight way buried he should be in the church yard of the priory apart some little space was made the grave where Francis must be laid in no confusion or neglect this did they but in pure respect that he was born of gentle blood and that there was no neighbourhood of kindred for him in that ground so to the church yard they abound bearing the body on a beer 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 in Ryleston 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 veil hath heard the funeral dirge she sees the knot of people sees them in one spot and darting like a wounded bird she reached the grave and with her breast upon the ground received the rest the consummation the whole roof and sorrow of this final truth end of canto 6th canto 7th of the White Doe of Ryleston by William Wordsworth this LibriVox recording is in the public domain 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 wither 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 recessive years tis done dispoil and desolation or Ryleston'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 ere while a covert brightened green and where full many a brave tree stood that used to spread its bows 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'er shadow 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, a vest with woolen cinchotide a hood of mountain woolen dyed is homely fashion 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 disdained 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 the moulded tree a self-surviving leafless oak but unregarded age from stroke of ravaged saved sat Emily 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 blear 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 a pace upon the happy creature's face oh moment ever blessed oh pair beloved of heaven heaven's choicest care this was for you a precious greeting for both a bountious fruitful meeting joined are they and the silver doe can she depart can she forgo the lady once her playful peer and now her sainted mistress deer 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 barmy April weather they tarried in the wood together and when air fall of evening dew she from the silver haunt withdrew the white doe tracked with faithful pace the lady to her dwelling place that nuke where on paternal ground a habitation she had found the master of whose humble board once owned her father for his lord the huts by tufted trees defended where Ryleston brook with morph 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 where so ever she looked round all now was trouble haunted ground so doth the sufferer deem it's good even once again this neighborhood to leave unwood yet unforbidden the white doe followed up the veil up to another cottage hidden in the deep fork of amadele and there may Emily restore herself in spots unseen before white tell of mossy rock or tree by lurking deembrook's pathless side haunts of a strengthening amity that calmed her cheered and fortified for she have ventured now to read of time and place and thought and deed endless history that lies in her silent followers 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 oh sure it was a gentle rousing when she by sudden glimpse aspired the white doe on the mountain browsing or in the meadow wondered 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 caves portal gliding by white as the whitest cloud on high floating through the azure sky what now is left for pain or fear that's presence dearer and more dear did now a very gladness yield that's morning to the dewy field while they side by side were straying and the shepherd's pipe was playing and with a deeper peace and dude the hour of moonlight solitude with her companion in such frame of mind to rile stern back she came and wondering 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 rile stern played their Sabbath music God us aid that was the sound they seem to speak in scriptive legend which I wean may on those holy bells be seen that's legend and her grandsire's name and often times the lady meek had in her childhood read the same words which he slighted at that day but now when such sad change was wrought and of that lonely name she thought the bells of rile stern seem to say while she sat listening in the shade with vocal music God us aid and all the hills were glad to bear their part in this effectual prayer nor lacked she reasons firmest power but with the white dough at her side up doth she climb to Norton tower and then slooks round her far and wide her fate their measures all instilled the feeble had subdued her heart behold the prophecy fulfilled fulfilled and she sustains her part but here her brother's words have failed here have a milder doom prevailed that she of him and all bereft have 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 Ryelston 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 night she loved to go there ranged through cloister court and Isle 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 her 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 dour 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 ere while 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 reassent 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 Luke 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 it need and joined the Warfdale 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 fret work imagery lay 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's one sequestered hillock green the pensive visitant is seen dared off the gentle creature lie with those adversities unmoved calm spectacle by earth and sky in their benignity approved and I, me thinks, this hoary pile subdued by outrage and decay looks down upon her with a smile a gracious smile that seems to say thou art not a child of time but daughter of the eternal prime end of canto seventh part eight of the white doe of ryleston by William Wordsworth this Librivox recording is in the public domain 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 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 rommelie young rommelie through barden woods is ranging high and low there is a greyhound in a leash to let slip upon buck 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 your a thousand years hath it borne that name and shall a thousand more and hither is young rommelie come and what to me now forbid 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 wharf and strangled with merciless force for nevermore was young rommelie seen till he rose a lifeless course now is there stillness in the veil and long unspeaking sorrow wharf 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 father 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 embolden 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 even song and the lady prayed in heaviness that looked not for relief but slowly did her sucker 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 End of Part 8