Chapter VIII (2)

These things, which thus had in the sight
And hearing passed of Him who stood 185
With Emily, on the Watch-tower height,
In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood,
He told; and oftentimes with voice
Of power to comfort[153] or rejoice;
For deepest sorrows that aspire, 190
Go high, no transport ever higher.
"Yes--God is rich in mercy," said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
"Yet, Lady! shines, through this black night,
One star of aspect heavenly bright;[154] 195
Your Brother lives--he lives--is come
Perhaps already to his home;
Then let us leave this dreary place."
She yielded, and with gentle pace,
Though without one uplifted look, 200
To Rylstone-hall her way she took.

CANTO SIXTH

Why comes not Francis?--From the doleful City
He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:[155]
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity! 5
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 10
With the fleet motion of a dove;[156]
Yea, like a heavenly messenger
Of speediest wing, should he appear.[157]
Why comes he not?--for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past; 15
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds
The sorrow, through the Villages,
Spread by triumphant cruelties[158]
Of vengeful military force, 20
And punishment without remorse.
He marked not, heard not, as he fled;
All but the suffering heart was dead
For him abandoned to blank awe,
To vacancy, and horror strong:[159] 25
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: 30
What hath he done? what promise made?
Oh weak, weak moment! to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend,
And he the Bearer?--Can he go
Carrying this instrument of woe, 35
And find, find any where, a right
To excuse him in his Country's sight?
No; will not all men deem the change
A downward course, perverse and strange?
Here is it;--but how? when? must she, 40
The unoffending Emily,
Again this piteous object see?

Such conflict long did he maintain,
Nor liberty nor rest could gain:[160]
His own life into danger brought 45
By this sad burden--even that thought,
Exciting self-suspicion strong,
Swayed the brave man to his wrong.[161]
And how--unless it were the sense
Of all-disposing Providence, 50
Its will unquestionably shown--
How has the Banner clung so fast
To a palsied, and unconscious hand;
Clung to the hand to which it passed
Without impediment? And why 55
But that Heaven's purpose might be known,
Doth now no hindrance meet his eye,
No intervention, to withstand
Fulfilment of a Father's prayer
Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 60
When all resentments were at rest,
And life in death laid the heart bare?--
Then, like a spectre sweeping by,
Rushed through his mind the prophecy
Of utter desolation made 65
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sighed, submitting will and power
To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.[162]
"No choice is left, the deed is mine--
Dead are they, dead!--and I will go, 70
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 75
Pursued;--and, at the dawn of day,
Attained a summit whence his eyes[163]
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
There Francis for a moment's space
Made halt--but hark! a noise behind 80
Of horsemen at an eager pace!
He heard, and with misgiving mind.
--'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand 85
Of death had drunk their punishment,
Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
How Francis, with the Banner claimed
As his own charge, had disappeared,[164]
By all the standers-by revered. 90
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) 95
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. 100
They hem him round--"Behold the proof,"
They cried, "the Ensign in his hand![165]
_He_ did not arm, he walked aloof!
For why?--to save his Father's land;--
Worst Traitor of them all is he, 105
A Traitor dark and cowardly!"

"I am no Traitor," Francis said,
"Though this unhappy freight I bear;
And must not part with. But beware;--
Err not, by hasty zeal misled,[166] 110
Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,
Whose self-reproaches are too strong!"
At this he from the beaten road
Retreated towards a brake of thorn,
That[167] like a place of vantage showed; 115
And there stood bravely, though forlorn.
In self-defence with warlike brow[168]
He stood,--nor weaponless was now;
He from a Soldier's hand had snatched
A spear,--and, so protected, watched 120
The Assailants, turning round and round;
But from behind with treacherous wound
A Spearman brought him to the ground.
The guardian lance, as Francis fell,
Dropped from him; but his other hand 125
The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,
One, the most eager for the prize,
Rushed in; and--while, O grief to tell!
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes
Unclosed the noble Francis lay-- 130
Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;
But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,
The wounds the broidered Banner showed,
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good![169] 135

Proudly the Horsemen bore away
The Standard; and where Francis lay[170]
There was he left alone, unwept,
And for two days unnoticed slept.
For at that time bewildering fear 140
Possessed the country, far and near;
But, on the third day, passing by
One of the Norton Tenantry
Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man
Shrunk as he recognised the face, 145
And to the nearest homesteads ran
And called the people to the place.
--How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
This was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there 150
Should be; to her they cannot bear
This weight of anguish and despair.
So, when upon sad thoughts had prest
Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent 155
And no one hinder their intent,[171]
Then, they, for Christian pity's sake,
In holy ground a grave would make;
And straightway[172] buried he should be
In the Church-yard of the Priory. 160

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; 165
And that there was no neighbourhood
Of kindred for him in that ground:
So to the Church-yard they are bound,
Bearing the body on a bier;
And psalms they sing--a holy sound 170
That hill and vale with sadness hear.[173]

But Emily hath raised her head,
And is again disquieted;
She must behold!--so many gone,
Where is the solitary One? 175
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,
To seek her Brother forth she went,
And tremblingly her course she bent
Toward[174] Bolton's ruined Priory.
She comes, and in the vale hath heard 180
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,-- 185
The consummation, the whole ruth
And sorrow of this final truth!

CANTO SEVENTH

"Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick--in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of."[OO]

Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory for this Maiden's sake,
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled 5
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-- 10
Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?
Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds
Its perilous front in mists and clouds?
High-climbing rock, low[175] sunless dale,
Sea, desert, what do these avail? 15
Oh take her anguish and her fears
Into a deep[176] recess of years!

'Tis done;--despoil and desolation
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;[PP]
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown[177] 20
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 25
Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide
Through park and field, a perishing
That mocks the gladness of the Spring!
And, with this silent gloom agreeing,
Appears[178] a joyless human Being, 30
Of aspect such as if the waste
Were under her dominion placed.
Upon a primrose bank, her throne
Of quietness, she sits alone;
[179]Among the ruins of a wood, 35
Erewhile a covert bright and green,
And where full many a brave tree stood,
That used to spread its boughs, and ring
With the sweet bird's carolling.
Behold her, like a virgin Queen, 40
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 45
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 50
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: 55
Such is her sovereign mien:--her dress
(A vest with woollen cincture tied,
A hood of mountain-wool undyed)
Is homely,--fashioned to express
A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 60

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 65
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; 70
The mighty sorrow hath[180] been borne,
And she is thoroughly forlorn:
Her soul doth in itself stand fast,
Sustained by memory of the past
And strength of Reason; held above 75
The infirmities of mortal love;
Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable,
And awfully impenetrable.

And so--beneath a mouldered tree,
A self-surviving leafless oak 80
By unregarded age from stroke
Of ravage saved--sate Emily.
There did she rest, with head reclined,
Herself most like a stately flower,
(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 85
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; 90
And, suddenly, behold a wonder!
For One, among those rushing deer,[181]
A single One, in mid career
Hath stopped, and fixed her[182] large full eye
Upon the Lady Emily; 95
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, 100
Drew softly near her, and more near--
Looked round--but saw no cause for fear;
So to her feet the Creature came,[183]
And laid its head upon her knee,
And looked into the Lady's face, 105
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, 110
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued,
She melted into tears--
A flood of tears, that flowed apace,
Upon the happy Creature's face.

Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair 115
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen[184] care,
This was for you a precious greeting;
And may it prove a fruitful meeting![185]
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe
Can she depart? can she forego 120
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? 125
Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face;
And welcome, as a gift of grace,[186]
The saddest thought the Creature brings?[187]

That day, the first of a re-union 130
Which was to teem with high communion,
That day of balmy April weather,
They tarried in the wood together.
And when, ere fall of evening dew,
She from her[188] sylvan haunt withdrew, 135
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 140
Once owned her Father for his Lord;
A hut, by tufted trees defended,
Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.[QQ]

When Emily by morning light
Went forth, the Doe stood there[189] in sight. 145
She shrunk:--with one frail shock of pain
Received and followed by a prayer,
She saw the Creature once again;[190]
Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;--
But, wheresoever she looked round, 150
All now was trouble-haunted ground;
And therefore now she deems it good
Once more this restless neighbourhood[191]
To leave. Unwooed, yet unforbidden,
The White Doe followed up the vale, 155
Up to another cottage, hidden
In the deep fork of Amerdale;[RR]
And there may Emily restore
Herself, in spots unseen before.
--Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 160
By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,[SS]
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-- 165
Endless history that lies
In her silent Follower's eyes;
Who with a power like human reason
Discerns the favourable season,
Skilled to approach or to retire,-- 170
From looks conceiving her desire;
From look, deportment, voice, or mien,
That vary to the heart within.
If she too passionately wreathed[192]
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, 175
Walked quick or slowly, every mood
In its degree was understood;
Then well may their accord be true,
And kindliest[193] intercourse ensue.
--Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing 180
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! 185
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, 190
White as whitest[194] cloud on high
Floating through the[195] azure sky.
--What now is left for pain or fear?
That Presence, dearer and more dear,
While they, side by side, were straying, 195
And the shepherd's pipe was playing,
Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,[196]
And with a deeper peace endued
The hour of moonlight solitude. 200

With her Companion, in such frame
Of mind, to Rylstone back she came;
And, ranging[197] through the wasted groves,
Received the memory of old loves,
Undisturbed and undistrest, 205
Into a soul which now was blest
With a soft spring-day of holy,
Mild, and grateful, melancholy:[198]
Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,
But by tender fancies brightened. 210

When the bells of Rylstone played
Their sabbath music--"=God us ayde!="[TT]
That was the sound they seemed to speak;
Inscriptive legend which I ween
May on those holy bells be seen, 215
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, 220
And of that lonely name she thought,
The bells of Rylstone seemed to say,
While she sate listening in the shade,
With vocal music, "=God us ayde;="
And all the hills were glad to bear 225
Their part in this effectual prayer.

Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power;
But with the White Doe at her side
Up would she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence look round her far and wide, 230
Her fate there measuring;--all is stilled,--
The weak One hath subdued her heart;[199]
Behold the prophecy fulfilled,
Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!
But here her Brother's words have failed; 235
Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
That she, of him and all bereft,
Hath yet this faithful Partner left;
This one Associate[200] that disproves
His words, remains for her, and loves. 240
If tears are shed, they do not fall
For loss of him--for one, or all;
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;
A few tears down her cheek descend 245
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-- 250
Here hath she, here before her sight,
Close to the summit of this height,
The grassy rock-encircled Pound[UU]
In which the Creature first was found.
So beautiful the timid Thrall 255
(A spotless Youngling white as foam)
Her youngest Brother brought it home;
The youngest, then a lusty boy,
Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall
With heart brimful of pride and joy![201] 260

But most to Bolton's sacred Pile,
On favouring nights, she loved to go;
There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
Attended by the soft-paced Doe;
Nor feared she in the still moonshine[202] 265
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;[VV]
Nor on the lonely turf that showed
Where Francis slept in his last abode.
For that she came; there oft she sate
Forlorn, but not disconsolate:[203] 270
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; 275
How happy in its[204] turn to meet
The[205] recognition! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance;
Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature 280
And prospects of the inferior Creature!

A mortal Song we sing,[206] by dower
Encouraged of celestial power;
Power which the viewless Spirit shed
By whom we were first visited; 285
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, 290
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; 295
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, 300
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; 305
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, 310
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. 315
Thy soul, exalted Emily,
Maid of the blasted family,
Rose to the God from whom it came!
--In Rylstone Church her mortal frame
Was buried by her Mother's side. 320

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 a holy place, 325
Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace;
And bears a memory and a mind
Raised far above the law of kind;[WW]
Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 330
Loves most what Emily loved most--
The enclosure of this church-yard ground;
Here wanders like a gliding ghost,
And every sabbath here is found;
Comes with the people when the bells 335
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, 340
And floors encumbered with rich show
Of fret-work imagery laid low;
Paces softly, or makes halt,
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault;
By plate of monumental brass 345
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave:
But chiefly by that single grave,
That one sequestered hillock green,
The pensive visitant is seen. 350
There doth the gentle Creature lie
With those adversities unmoved;
Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved!
And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 355
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks 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!" 360

The following is the full text of the first "note" to _The White Doe of Rylstone_, published in the quarto edition of 1815. The other notes to that edition are printed in this, at the foot of the pages where they occur:--

"The Poem of _The White Doe of Rylstone_ 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 Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was
constantly found in the Abbey Church-yard during divine service;
after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the
rest of the congregation.'--Dr. WHITAKER'S _History of the Deanery
of Craven_.--Rylstone was the property and residence of the
Nortons, 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 12th year of Elizabeth, 1569, which proved so fatal to Thomas
Percy, the seventh Earl of Northumberland.

"There had not long before been a secret negociation entered into
between some of the Scottish and English nobility, to bring about
a marriage between Mary Q. 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 to make
their appearance at court. It is said that the Earl of
Northumberland, who was a man of a mild and gentle nature,[XX] 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, Nov. 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
Brancepeth, where the country came in to 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 Wetherby, 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 E. of
Northumberland bringing with him only 8000 crowns, and the E. of
Westmoreland nothing at all, for the subsistence of their forces,
they were not able to march to London, as they had at 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 13, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord
Hunsden 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 Stow, Speed, Camden, Guthrie,
Carte, and Rapin; it agrees, in most particulars, with the
following Ballad, apparently the production of some northern
minstrel.--

"Listen, lively lordings all,
Lithe and listen unto mee,
And I will sing of a noble earle,
The noblest earle in the north countrie.

Earle Percy is into his garden gone,
And after him walks his fair leddie:
I heard a bird sing in mine ear,
That I must either fight, or flee.

Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord,
That ever such harm should hap to thee:
But goe to London to the court,
And fair fall truth and honestie.

Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay,
Alas! thy counsell suits not mee;
Mine enemies prevail so fast,
That at the court I may not bee.

O goe 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 bee.

Now nay, now nay, thou ladye faire,
The court is full of subtiltie:
And if I goe to the court, ladye,
Never more I may thee see.

Yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes,
And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee:
At court then for my dearest lord,
His faithful borrowe I will bee.

Now nay, now nay, my ladye deare;
Far lever had I lose my life,
Than leave among my cruell foes
My love in jeopardy and strife.

But come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come thou hither unto mee,
To Maister Norton thou must goe
In all the haste that ever may bee.

Commend me to that gentleman,
And beare this letter here fro mee;
And say that earnestly I praye,
He will ryde in my companie.

One while the little foot-page went,
And another while he ran;
Untill 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 lett the gentleman it see.

And when the letter it was redd,
Affore that goodlye companie,
I wis if you the truthe wold know,
There was many a weeping eye.

He sayd, Come thither, Christopher Norton,
A gallant youth thou seem'st to bee;
What dost thou counsell me, my sonne,
Now that good earle's in jeopardy?

Father, my counselle's fair and free;
That erle he is a noble lord,
And whatsoever to him you hight,
I would not have you breake your word.

Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne,
Thy counsell well it liketh mee,
And if we speed and 'scape with life,
Well advanced shalt thou bee.

Come you hither, my nine good sonnes,
Gallant men I trowe you bee:
How many of you, my children deare,
Will stand by that good erle and mee?

Eight of them did answer make,
Eight of them spake hastilie,
O Father, till the day we dye
We'll stand by that good erle and thee.

Gramercy, now, my children deare,
You shew yourselves right bold and brave,
And whethersoe'er I live or dye,
A father's blessing you shall have.

But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton,
Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire:
Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast;
Whatever it bee, to mee declare.

Father, you are an aged man,
Your head is white, your beard is gray;
It were a shame at these your years
For you to ryse in such a fray.

Now fye upon thee, coward Francis,
Thou never learned'st this of mee;
When thou wert young and tender of age,
Why did I make soe much of thee?

But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee;
And he that strikes against the crowne,
Ever an ill death may he dee.

Then rose that reverend gentleman,
And with him came a goodlye band
To join with the brave Earle Percy,
And all the flower o' Northumberland.

With them the noble Nevill came,
The erle of Westmoreland was hee;
At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
Thirteen thousand fair to see.

Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde,
The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,
And three Dogs with golden collars
Were there set out most royallye.

Erle Percy there his ancyent spread,
The Halfe Moone shining all soe faire;
The Nortons ancyent had the Crosse,
And the five wounds our Lord did beare.

Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose,
After them some spoile to make:
Those noble erles turned back againe,
And aye they vowed that knight to take.

That baron he to his castle fled,
To Barnard castle then fled hee.
The uttermost walles were eathe to win.
The earles have wonne them presentlie.

The uttermost walles were lime and bricke;
But though they won them soon anone,
Long ere they wan their innermost walles,
For they were cut in rocke and stone.

Then news unto leeve London came
In all the speed that ever might bee,
And word is brought to our royall queene
Of the rysing in the North countrie.

Her grace she turned her round about,
And like a royall queene shee swore,
I will ordayne them such a breakfast,
As never was in the North before.

Shee caused thirty thousand men be rays'd,
With horse and harneis faire to see;
She caused thirty thousand men be raised
To take the earles i' th' North countrie.

Wi' them the false Erle Warwicke went,
The Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden,
Untill they to York castle came
I wiss they never stint ne blan.

Now spred thy ancyent, Westmoreland,
Thy dun Bull faine would we spye:
And thou, the Erle of Northumberland,
Now rayse thy Halfe Moone on hye.

But the dun bulle is fled and gone,
And the halfe moone vanished away:
The Erles, though they were brave and bold,
Against soe many could not stay.

Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes,
They doomed to dye, alas! for ruth!
Thy reverend lockes thee could not save,
Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.

Wi' them full many a gallant wight
They cruellye bereav'd of life:
And many a child made fatherlesse,
And widowed many a tender wife.

"'Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker 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 are
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 half a 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 bursts
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-basons, or "pots of the Linn," 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 Barden
Tower, interesting from their form and situation, and still more
so from the recollections which they excite.'"

* * * * *

_The White Doe of Rylstone_ has been assigned chronologically to the year 1808; although part of it--probably the larger half--was written during the autumn of the previous year, and it remained unfinished in 1810, while the Dedication was not written till 1815. In the Fenwick note, Wordsworth tells us that the "earlier half" was written at Stockton-on-Tees "at the close" of 1807, and "proceeded with" at Dove Cottage, after his return to Grasmere, which was in April 1808. But on the 28th February, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth, writing from Allan Bank to Lady Beaumont, says, "Before my brother turns to any other labour, I hope he will have finished three books of _The Recluse_. He seldom writes less than 50 lines every day. After this task is finished he hopes to complete _The White Doe_, and proud should we all be if it should be honoured by a frontispiece from the pencil of Sir George Beaumont. Perhaps this is not impossible, if you come into the north next summer."

A frontispiece was drawn by Sir George Beaumont for the quarto edition of 1815.

When part of the poem was finished, Wordsworth showed it to Southey; and Southey, writing to Walter Scott, in February 1808, said,--

"Wordsworth has just completed a most masterly poem upon the fate
of the Nortons; two or three lines in the old ballad of _The
Rising of the North_ gave him the hint. The story affected me more
deeply than I wish to be affected; younger readers, however, will
not object to the depth of the distress, and nothing was ever more
ably treated. He is looking, too, for a narrative subject, pitched
in a lower key."

One of the most interesting letters of S. T. Coleridge to Wordsworth is an undated one, sent from London in the spring of 1808, containing a characteristic criticism of _The White Doe_. The Wordsworth family had asked Coleridge to discuss the subject of the publication of the poem with the Longmans' firm. It is more than probable that it was Coleridge's criticism of the structural defects in the poem, that led Wordsworth to postpone its publication. The following is part of the letter:--

"... In my reperusals of the poem, it seemed always to strike on
my feeling as well as judgment, that if there were any serious
defect, it consisted in a disproportion of the Accidents to the
spiritual Incidents; and, closely connected with this,--if it be
not indeed the same,--that Emily is indeed talked of, and once
appears, but neither speaks nor acts, in all the first
three-fourths of the poem. Then, as the outward interest of the
poem is in favour of the old man's religious feelings, and the
filial heroism of his band of sons, it seemed to require something
in order to place the two protestant malcontents of the family in
a light that made them beautiful as well as virtuous. In short, to
express it far more strongly than I mean or think, in order (in
the present anguish of my spirits) to be able to express it at
all, that three-fourths of the work is everything rather _than_
Emily; and then, the last--almost a separate and doubtless an
exquisite poem--wholly _of_ Emily. The whole of the rest, and the
delivering up of the family by Francis, I never ceased to find,
not only comparatively heavy, but to me quite obscure as to
Francis's motives. On the few, to whom, within my acquaintance,
the poem has been read, either by yourself or me (I have, I
believe, read it only at the Beaumonts'), it produced the same
effect.

"Now I have conceived two little incidents, the introduction of
which, joined to a little abridgment, and lyrical precipitation of
the last half of the third, I had thought would have removed this
defect, so seeming to me, and bring to a finer balance the
_business_ with the _action_ of the tale. But after my receipt of
your letter, concerning Lamb's censures, I felt my courage fail,
and that what I deemed a harmonizing would disgust you as a
_materialization_ of the plan, and appear to you like
insensibility to the power of the history in the mind. Not that I
should have shrunk back from the mere fear of giving transient
pain, and a temporary offence, from the want of sympathy of
feeling and coincidence of opinions. I rather envy than blame that
deep interest in a production, which is inevitable perhaps, and
certainly not dishonourable to such as feel poetry their calling
and their duty, and which no man would find much fault with if the
object, instead of a poem, were a large estate or a title. It
appears to me to become a foible only when the poet denies, or is
unconscious of its existence, but I did not deem myself in such a
state of mind as to entitle me to rely on my own opinion when
opposed to yours, from the heat and bustle of these disgusting
lectures."

. . . . .

"From most of these causes I was suffering, so as not to allow me
any rational confidence in my opinions when contrary to yours,
which had been formed in calmness and on long reflection. Then I
received your sister's letter, stating the wish that I would give
up the thought of proposing the means of correction, and merely
point out the things to be corrected, which--as they could be of
no great consequence--you might do in a day or two, and the
publication of the poem--for the immediacy of which she expressed
great anxiety--be no longer retarded. The merely verbal
_alteranda_ did appear to me very few and trifling. From your
letter on L----, I concluded that you would not have the incidents
and action interfered with, and therefore I sent it off; but soon
retracted it, in order to note down the single words and phrases
that I disliked in the books, after the two first, as there would
be time to receive your opinion of them during the printing of the
two first, in which I saw nothing amiss, except the one passage we
altered together, and the two lines which I scratched out, because
you yourself were doubtful. Mrs. Shepherd told me that she had
felt them exactly as I did--namely, as interrupting the spirit of
the continuous tranquil motion of _The White Doe_."

It will be seen from this letter that Wordsworth had gone over the poem with Coleridge, and that they had altered some passages "together"; that Coleridge had read a copy of it sent to the Beaumonts, doubtless at Dunmow in Essex; that he had thought of a plan by which the poem could be immensely improved, both by addition and subtraction; but that hearing from Wordsworth, or more probably from his sister Dorothy, that Charles Lamb had also criticised its structure, he gave up his intention of sending to his friend suggestions, which evidently implied a radical alteration of "the incidents and action" of the tale. It would have been extremely interesting to know how the author of _Christabel_ and _The Ancient Mariner_ proposed to recast _The White Doe of Rylstone_. It is, alas! impossible for posterity to know this, although it is not difficult to conjecture the line which the alterations would take. Wordsworth's genius was not great in construction, as in imagination; and he valued a story only as giving him a "point of departure" for a flight of fancy or of idealization. Early in 1808 he wrote to Walter Scott asking him for facts about the Norton family. Scott supplied him with them, and the following was Wordsworth's reply.

"GRASMERE, May 14, 1808.

"MY DEAR SCOTT--Thank you for the interesting particulars about
the Nortons. I like them much for their own sakes; but so far from
being serviceable to my poem, they would stand in the way of it,
as I have followed (as I was in duty bound to do) the traditionary
and common historic account. Therefore I shall say, in this case,
a plague upon your industrious antiquarians, that have put my fine
story to confusion."

From the "advertisement" which Wordsworth prefixed to his edition of 1815, I infer that the larger part of the poem was written at Stockton. In it he says that "the Poem of _The White Doe_ was composed at the close of the year" (1807). This is an illustration of the vague manner in which he was in the habit of assigning dates. The Fenwick note, and the evidence of his sister's letter, is conclusive; although the fact that _The Force of Prayer_--written in 1807--is called in the Fenwick note "an appendage to _The White Doe_," is further confirmation of the belief that the principal part of the latter poem was finished in 1807. All things considered, _The White Doe of Rylstone_ may be most conveniently placed after the poems belonging to the year 1807, and before those known to have been written in 1808; while _The Force of Prayer_ naturally follows it.

The poem--first published in quarto in 1815--was scarcely altered in the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In 1837, however, it was revised throughout, and in that year the text was virtually settled; the subsequent changes being few and insignificant, while those introduced in 1837 were numerous and important. A glance at the foot-notes will show that many passages were entirely rewritten in that year, and that a good many lines of the earlier text were altogether omitted. All the poems were subjected to minute revision in 1836-37; but few, if any, were more thoroughly recast, and improved, in that year than _The White Doe of Rylstone_. As a sample of the best kind of changes--where a new thought was added to the earlier text with admirable felicity--compare the lines in canto vii., as it stood in 1815, when the Lady Emily first saw the White Doe at the old Hall of Rylstone, after her terrible losses and desolation--

Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face,
And take this gift of Heaven with grace?

with the additional thought conveyed in the version of 1837--

Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face;
And welcome, as a gift of grace,
The saddest thought the Creature brings?

In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth--written by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge for the late Bishop of Lincoln's _Memoirs_ of his uncle--the following occurs. (See vol. ii. p. 311.) "His conversation was on critical subjects, arising out of his attempts to alter his poems. He said he considered _The White Doe_ as, in conception, the highest work he had ever produced. The mere physical action was all unsuccessful: but the true action of the poem was spiritual--the subduing of the will, and all inferior fancies, to the perfect purifying and spiritualizing of the intellectual nature; while the Doe, by connection with Emily, is raised as it were from its mere animal nature into something mysterious and saint-like. He said he should devote much labour to perfecting the execution of it in the mere business parts, in which, from anxiety 'to get on' with the more important parts, he was sensible that imperfections had crept in which gave the style a feebleness of character."

From this conversation--which took place in 1836--it will be seen that Wordsworth knew very well that there were feeble passages in the earlier editions; and that, in the thorough revision which he gave to all his poems in 1836-37, this one was specially singled out for "much labour." The result is seen by a glance at the changes of the text.

The notes appended by Wordsworth to the edition of 1815 explain some of the historical and topographical allusions in the poem. To these the following editorial notes may be added--

I. (See pp. 106, 107.)

_... Bolton's mouldering Priory._
...
_... the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,_
...
_And in the shattered fabric's heart
Remaineth one protected part;
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
Closely embowered and trimly drest._

In 1153, the canons of the Augustinian Priory at Embsay, near Skipton, were removed to Bolton, by William Fitz Duncan, and his wife, Cecilia de Romille, who granted it by charter in exchange for the Manors of Skibdem and Stretton. The establishment at Bolton consisted of a prior and about 15 canons, over 200 persons (including servants and lay brethren) being supported at Bolton. During the Scottish raids of the fourteenth century, the prior and canons had frequently to retreat to Skipton for safety. In 1542 the site of the priory and demesnes were sold to Harry Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland. From the last Earl of Cumberland it passed to the second Earl of Cork, and then to the Devonshire family, to which it still belongs. The following is part of the excellent account of the Priory, given in Murray's _Yorkshire_:--

"The chief relic of the Priory is the church, the nave of which
after the Dissolution was retained as the chapel of this so-called
'Saxon-Cure.' This nave remains perfect, but the rest of the
church is in complete ruin. The lower walls of the choir are
Trans-Norman, and must have been built immediately after (if not
before) the removal from Embsay. The upper walls and windows (the
tracery of which is destroyed) are decorated. The nave is early
English, and decorated; and the original west front remains with
an elaborate Perpendicular front of excellent design, intended as
the base of a western tower, which was never finished.... The nave
(which has been restored under the direction of Crace)--the

"'One protected part
In the shattered fabric's heart,'

is Early English on the south side, and Decorated on the north....
At the end of the nave aisle, enclosed by a Perpendicular screen,
is a chantry, founded by the Mauleverers; and below it is the
vault, in which, according to tradition, the Claphams of Beamsley
and their ancestors the Mauleverers were interred upright--

"'Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;
And, through the chink in the fractured floor
Look down, and see a griesly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright!
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand.'

"Whitaker, however, could never see this 'griesly sight' through
the chink in the floor; and it is perhaps altogether traditional.
The ruined portion of the church is entirely Decorated, with the
exception of the lower walls of the choir. The transepts had
eastern aisles. The north transept is nearly perfect: the south
retains only its western wall, in which are two decorated windows.
The piers of a central tower remain; but at what period it was
destroyed, or if it was ever completed, is uncertain. The choir is
long and aisleless. Some fragments of tracery remain in the south
window, which was a very fine one. Below the window runs a
Transitional Norman arcade. Some portions of tomb-slabs remain in
the choir.... The church-yard lies on the north side of the ruins.
This has been made classic ground by Wordsworth's poem."

II. (See p. 118.)

_... the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly quietness._

Compare the poem _The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of Bolton Priory_, p. 204. Whitaker writes thus of the district of Upper Wharfedale at Barden. "Grey tower-like projections of rock, stained with the various hues of lichens, and hung with loose and streaming canopies of ling, start out at intervals." Before the restoration of Henry Clifford, the Shepherd-lord, to the estates of his ancestors--on the accession of Henry VII.--there was only a keeper's lodge or tower at Barden, "one of six which existed in different parts of Barden Forest. The Shepherd-lord, whose early life among the Cumberland Fells led him to seek quiet and retirement after his restoration, preferred Barden to his greater castles, and enlarged (or rather rebuilt) it so as to provide accommodation for a moderate train of attendants."

III. (See p. 121.)

_It was the time when England's Queen
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;_
...
_But now the inly-working North
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight
In Percy's and in Neville's right_, etc.

The circumstances which led to the Rising in the North, and the chief incidents of that unfortunate episode in English history, are traced in detail by Mr. Froude, in the fifty-third chapter of his _History of England_. They are also summarized, in a lecture on _The White Doe of Rylstone_, by the late Principal Shairp, in his _Aspects of Poetry_, from which the following passage is an extract (pp. 346-48).

"The incidents on which the _White Doe_ is founded belong to the
year 1569, the twelfth of Queen Elizabeth.

"It is well known that as soon as Queen Mary of Scotland was
imprisoned in England, she became the centre around which gathered
all the intrigues which were then on foot, not only in England but
throughout Catholic Europe, to dethrone the Protestant Queen
Elizabeth. Abroad, the Catholic world was collecting all its
strength to crush the heretical island. The bigot Pope, Pius V.,
with the dark intriguer, Philip II. of Spain, and the savage Duke
of Alva, were ready to pour their forces on the shores of England.

"At home, a secret negotiation for a marriage between Queen Mary
and the Duke of Norfolk had received the approval of many of the
chief English nobles. The Queen discovered the plot, threw Norfolk
and some of his friends into the Tower, and summoned Percy, Earl
of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, immediately
to appear at court. These two earls were known to be holding
secret communications with Mary, and longing to see the old faith
restored.