subject being taken from feudal times has led to its being compared to
some of Walter Scott's poems that belong to the same age and state of
society. The comparison is inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the
customary and very natural course of conducting an action, presenting
various turns of fortune, to some outstanding point on which the mind
might rest as a termination or catastrophe. The course I have attempted
to pursue is entirely different. Everything that is attempted by the
principal personages in _The White Doe_ fails, so far as its object is
external and substantial. So far as it is moral and spiritual it
succeeds. The heroine of the poem knows that her duty is not to
interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay them,
but
to abide
The shock, and finally secure
O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.
This she does in obedience to her brother's injunction, as most suitable
to a mind and character that, under previous trials, has been proved to
accord with his. She achieves this not without aid from the
communication with the inferior Creature, which often leads her thoughts
to revolve upon the past with a tender and humanising influence that
exalts rather than depresses her. The anticipated beatification, if I
may so say, of her mind, and the apotheosis of the companion of her
solitude, are the points at which the Poem aims, and constitute its
legitimate catastrophe, far too spiritual a one for instant or
widely-spread sympathy, but not, therefore, the less fitted to make a
deep and permanent impression upon that class of minds who think and
feel more independently, than the many do, of the surfaces of things and
interests transitory, because belonging more to the outward and social
forms of life than to its internal spirit. How insignificant a thing,
for example, does personal prowess appear compared with the fortitude of
patience and heroic martyrdom; in other words, with struggles for the
sake of principle, in preference to victory gloried in for its own
sake.--I. F.]
DEDICATION
I
In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,[B]
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 Spenser's Lay 5
How Una, sad of soul--in sad attire,
The gentle Una, of celestial birth,[1]
To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.
II
Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,
And the tear precious in compassion shed 10
For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,--[C]
And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 15
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.
III
Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught; 20
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:"[D]
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!
IV
For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 25
For us the voice of melody was mute.
--But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 30
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.
V
It soothed us--it beguiled us--then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 35
The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
High over hill and low adown the dell
Again we wandered, willing to partake
All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. 40
VI
Then, too, this Song _of mine_ once more could please,
Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,
Is tempered and allayed by sympathies
Aloft ascending, and descending deep,
Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees 45
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.
VII
This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
Of female patience winning firm repose; 50
And, of the recompense that[2] 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 55
A happy hour with holier happiness.
VIII
He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
O, that my mind were equal to fulfil
The comprehensive mandate which they give-- 60
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.
RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND,
_April 20, 1815_.
"Action is transitory--a step, a blow, 65
The motion of a muscle--this way or that--
'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And has the nature of infinity. 70
Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
And irremovable) gracious openings lie,
By which the soul--with patient steps of thought
Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer--
May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 75
Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent
Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."[E]
"They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man
is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to
God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys
likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take
an example of a Dogg, 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 Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly
such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature
than his own could never attain. So Man, when he resteth and
assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a
force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain."
LORD BACON.[F]
CANTO FIRST
From Bolton's old monastic tower[G]
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun shines[3] bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 5
Along the banks of crystal Wharf,[4]
Through the Vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company! 10
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms;
Path, or no path, what care they?
And thus in joyous mood they hie 15
To Bolton's mouldering Priory.[H]
What would they there!--full fifty years
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers,
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste
The bitterness of wrong and waste: 20
Its courts are ravaged; but the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,[I]
That ancient voice which wont to call
To mass or some high festival;
And in the shattered fabric's heart 25
Remaineth one protected part;
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
Closely embowered and trimly drest;[5][J]
And thither young and old repair,
This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 30
Fast the church-yard fills;--anon
Look again, and they all are gone;
The cluster round the porch, and the folk
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak![K]
And scarcely have they disappeared 35
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:--
With one consent the people rejoice,
Filling the church with a lofty voice!
They sing a service which they feel:
For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal; 40
Of a pure faith the vernal prime--[6]
In great Eliza's golden time.
A moment ends the fervent din,
And all is hushed, without and within;
For though the priest, more tranquilly, 45
Recites the holy liturgy,
The only voice which you can hear
Is the river murmuring near.
--When soft!--the dusky trees between,
And down the path through the open green, 50
Where is no living thing to be seen;
And through yon gateway, where is found,
Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
Free entrance to the church-yard ground--
[7]Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 55
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary Doe!
White she is as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon 60
When out of sight the clouds are driven
And she is left alone in heaven;
Or like a ship some gentle day
In sunshine sailing far away,
A glittering ship, that hath the plain 65
Of ocean for her own domain.
Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed!
Ye living, tend your holy cares;
Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 70
And blame not me if my heart and sight
Are occupied with one delight!
'Tis a work for sabbath hours
If I with this bright Creature go:
Whether she be of forest bowers, 75
From the bowers of earth below;
Or a Spirit for one day given,
A pledge[8] of grace from purest heaven.
What harmonious pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges 80
Round and through this Pile of state
Overthrown and desolate!
Now a step or two her way
Leads through[9] space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light 85
Brightens her that was so bright;[L]
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath: 90
Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,--
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell,
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 95
Of the elder's bushy head;
Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,
And where no flower hath leave to dwell.
The presence of this wandering Doe 100
Fills many a damp obscure recess
With lustre of a saintly show;
And, reappearing, she no less
Sheds on the flowers that round her blow
A more than sunny liveliness.[10] 105
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense 110
Of sorrow, or of reverence?
Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?
For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where Man abode; 115
For old magnificence undone;
Or for the gentler work begun
By Nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing?[M]
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 120
That to the sapling ash gives birth;
For dormitory's length laid bare
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;[N]
Or altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament?[11] 125
--She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;[O]
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest, 130
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;
As little she regards the sight[12]
As a common creature might:
If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 135
--But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves--with pace how light!
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And thus she fares, until at last[13] 140
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
In quietness she lays her down;
Gentle[14] as a weary wave
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side; 145
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.
The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the crystal stream now flowing 150
With its softest summer sound:[15]
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant Creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes. 155
--But now again the people raise
With awful cheer a voice of praise;[16]
It is the last, the parting song;
And from the temple forth they throng,
And quickly spread themselves abroad, 160
While each pursues his several road.
But some--a variegated band
Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung-- 165
With mute obeisance gladly paid
Turn towards the spot, where, full in view,
The white Doe, to her service true,[17]
Her sabbath couch has made.
It was a solitary mound; 170
Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide:
As if in some respect of pride;
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood; 175
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.
"Look, there she is, my Child! draw near;
She fears not, wherefore should we fear?
She means no harm;"--but still the Boy, 180
To whom the words were softly said,
Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy,
A shamed-faced blush of glowing red!
Again the Mother whispered low,
"Now you have seen the famous Doe; 185
From Rylstone she hath found her way
Over the hills this sabbath day;
Her work, whate'er it be, is done,
And she will depart when we are gone;
Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 190
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."
[18]Bright was[19] 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, 195
Asks of himself, and doubts,--and still
The doubt returns against his will:
Though he, and all the standers-by,
Could tell a tragic history
Of facts divulged, wherein appear 200
Substantial motive, reason clear,
Why thus the milk-white Doe is found
Couchant beside that lonely mound;
And why she duly loves to pace
The circuit of this hallowed place. 205
Nor to the Child's inquiring mind
Is such perplexity confined:
For, spite of sober Truth that sees
A world of fixed remembrances
Which to this mystery belong, 210
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, 215
Which do the gentle Creature wrong.
That bearded, staff-supported Sire--
Who in his boyhood often fed[20]
Full cheerily on convent-bread
And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 220
And to his grave will go with scars,
Relics of long and distant wars--[21]
That Old Man, studious to expound
The spectacle, is mounting[22] high
To days of dim antiquity; 225
When Lady Aaeliza mourned
Her Son,[P] and felt in her despair
The pang of unavailing prayer;
Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned,
The noble Boy of Egremound.[Q] 230
From which affliction--when the grace
Of God had in her heart found place--[23]
A pious structure, fair to see,
Rose up, this stately Priory!
The Lady's work;--but now laid low; 235
To the grief of her soul that doth come and go,
In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe:
Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain
A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain,
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright; 240
And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light.
Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;[R]
And, through the chink in the fractured floor
Look down, and see a griesly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright![S] 245
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
And, in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man, and a name of dread 250
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
Look down among them, if you dare;
Oft does the White Doe loiter there, 255
Prying into the darksome rent;
Nor can it be with good intent:
So thinks that Dame of haughty air,
Who hath a Page her book to hold,
And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 260
Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree--
Who counts among her ancestry[24]
Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!
That slender Youth, a scholar pale,
From Oxford come to his native vale, 265
He also hath his own conceit:
It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy,
Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet[T]
In his wanderings solitary:
Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 270
A song of Nature's hidden powers;
That whistled like the wind, and rang
Among the rocks and holly bowers.
'Twas said that She all shapes could wear;
And oftentimes before him stood, 275
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 Cumbrian[25] heights;
When under cloud of fear he lay, 280
A shepherd clad in homely grey;
Nor left him at his later day.
And hence, when he, with spear and shield,
Rode full of years to Flodden-field,
His eye could see the hidden spring, 285
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; 290
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
Him his own thoughts did elevate,--
Most happy in the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly[26] quietness.[U]
And choice of studious friends had he 295
Of Bolton's dear fraternity;
Who, standing on this old church tower,
In many a calm propitious hour,
Perused, with him, the starry sky;
Or, in their cells, with him did pry 300
For other lore,--by keen desire
Urged to close toil with chemic fire;[27]
In quest belike of transmutations
Rich as the mine's most bright creations.[28]
But they and their good works are fled, 305
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, 310
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; 315
Yea, many overcome in spite
Of recollections clear and bright;
Which yet do unto some impart
An undisturbed repose of heart.
And all the assembly own a law 320
Of orderly respect and awe;
But see--they vanish one by one,
And last, the Doe herself is gone.
Harp! we have been full long beguiled
By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild;[29] 325
To which, with no reluctant strings,
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
And now before this Pile we stand
In solitude, and utter peace:
But, Harp! thy murmurs may not cease-- 330
A Spirit, with his angelic wings,
In soft and breeze-like visitings,
Has touched thee--and a Spirit's hand:[30]
A voice is with us--a command
To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 335
A tale of tears, a mortal story!
CANTO SECOND
The Harp in lowliness obeyed;
And first we sang of the green-wood shade
And a solitary Maid;
Beginning, where the song must end,
With her, and with her sylvan Friend; 5
The Friend, who stood before her sight,
Her only unextinguished light;
Her last companion in a dearth
Of love, upon a hopeless earth.
For She it was--this Maid, who wrought[31] 10
Meekly, with foreboding thought,
In vermeil colours and in gold
An unblest work; which, standing by,
Her Father did with joy behold,--
Exulting in its[32] imagery; 15
A Banner, fashioned to fulfil[33]
Too perfectly his headstrong will:
For on this Banner had her hand
Embroidered (such her Sire's command)[34]
The sacred Cross; and figured there 20
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
Full soon to be uplifted high,
And float in rueful company!
It was the time when England's Queen 24
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;[V]
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 30
In Percy's and in Neville's right,[W]
Two Earls fast leagued in discontent,
Who gave their wishes open vent;
And boldly urged a general plea,
The rites of ancient piety 35
To be triumphantly restored,
By the stern justice of the sword![35]
And that same Banner on whose breast
The blameless Lady had exprest
Memorials chosen to give life 40
And sunshine to a dangerous strife;
That[36] Banner, waiting for the Call,
Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall.
It came; and Francis Norton said,
"O Father! rise not in this fray-- 45
The hairs are white upon your head;
Dear Father, hear me when I say
It is for you too late a day!
Bethink you of your own good name:
A just and gracious queen have we, 50
A pure religion, and the claim
Of peace on our humanity.--
'Tis meet that I endure your scorn;
I am your son, your eldest born;
But not for lordship or for land, 55
My Father, do I clasp your knees;
The Banner touch not, stay your hand,
This multitude of men disband,
And live at home in blameless[37] ease;
For these my brethren's sake, for me; 60
And, most of all, for Emily!"
Tumultuous noises filled the hall;[38]
And scarcely could the Father hear
That name--pronounced with a dying fall--[39][X]
The name of his only Daughter dear, 65
As on[40] the banner which stood near
He glanced a look of holy pride,
And his moist[41] eyes were glorified;
Then did he seize the staff, and say:[42]
"Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name, 70
Keep thou this ensign till the day
When I of thee require the same:
Thy place be on my better hand;--
And seven as true as thou, I see,
Will cleave to this good cause and me." 75
He spake, and eight brave sons straightway
All followed him, a gallant band!
Thus, with his sons, when forth he came
The sight was hailed with loud acclaim
And din of arms and minstrelsy,[43] 80
From all his warlike tenantry,
All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,--
A voice[44] to which the hills replied!
But Francis, in the vacant hall,
Stood silent under dreary weight,-- 85
A phantasm, in which roof and wall
Shook, tottered, swam before his sight;
A phantasm like a dream of night!
Thus overwhelmed, and desolate,
He found his way to a postern-gate; 90
And, when he waked, his languid eye[45]
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 95
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, 100
Had blindly grasped in that strong trance,
That dimness of heart-agony;
There stood he, cleansed from the despair
And sorrow of his fruitless prayer.
The past he calmly hath reviewed: 105
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?[46]
He saw her where in open view 110
She sate beneath the spreading yew--
Her head upon her lap, concealing
In solitude her bitter feeling:
[47]"Might ever son _command_ a sire,
The act were justified to-day." 115
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." 120
She heard, but looked not up, nor spake;
And sorrow moved him to partake
Her silence; then his thoughts turned round,[48]
And fervent words a passage found.
"Gone are they, bravely, though misled; 125
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. 130
This said, our tears to-day may fall
As at an innocent funeral.
In deep and awful channel runs
This sympathy of Sire and Sons;
Untried our Brothers have been loved[49] 135
With heart by simple nature moved;[50]
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 140
Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher,
John with a sword that will not fail,
And Marmaduke in fearless mail,
And those bright Twins were side by side;
And there, by fresh hopes beautified, 145
Stood He,[51] whose arm yet lacks the power
Of man, our youngest, fairest flower!
I, by the right[52] of eldest born,
And in a second father's place,
Presumed to grapple with[53] their scorn, 150
And meet their pity face to face;
Yea, trusting in God's holy aid,
I to my Father knelt and prayed;
And one, the pensive Marmaduke,
Methought, was yielding inwardly, 155
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!
Thou, chiefly thou,[54] my Sister dear, 160
Whose pangs are registered in heaven--
The stifled sigh, the hidden tear,
And smiles, that dared to take their place,
Meek filial smiles, upon thy face,
As that unhallowed Banner grew 165
Beneath a 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; 170
With theirs my efforts cannot blend,
I cannot for such cause contend;
Their aims I utterly forswear;
But I in body will be there.
Unarmed and naked will I go, 175
Be at their side, come weal or woe:
On kind occasions I may wait,
See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate.
Bare breast I take and an empty hand."--[Y]
Therewith he threw away the lance, 180
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.