William Wordsworth

The White Doe Of Rylstone 1

Canto First

FROM Bolton's old monastic tower The bells ring loud with gladsome power; The sun shines bright; the fields are gay With people in their best array Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, Along the banks of crystal Wharf, Through the Vale retired and lowly, Trooping to that summons holy. And, up among the moorlands, see What sprinklings of blithe company! Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, That down the steep hills force their way, Like cattle through the budded brooms; Path, or no path, what care they? And thus in joyous mood they hie To Bolton's mouldering Priory. What would they there?--Full fifty years That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, Too harshly hath been doomed to taste The bitterness of wrong and waste: Its courts are ravaged; but the tower Is standing with a voice of power, That ancient voice which wont to call To mass or some high festival; And in the shattered fabric's heart Remaineth one protected part; A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest; And thither young and old repair, This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. Fast the churchyard 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! And scarcely have they disappeared Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:-- With one consent the people rejoice, Filling the church with a lofty voice! They sing a service which they feel: For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal; Of a pure faith the vernal prime-- In great Eliza's golden time. A moment ends the fervent din, And all is hushed, without and within; For though the priest, more tranquilly, Recites the holy liturgy, The only voice which you can hear Is the river murmuring near. --When soft!--the dusky trees between, And down the path through the open green, Where is no living thing to be seen; And through yon gateway, where is found, Beneath the arch with ivy bound, Free entrance to the churchyard ground-- Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, Comes gliding in serene and slow, Soft and silent as a dream, A solitary Doe! White she is as lily of June, And beauteous as the silver moon When out of sight the clouds are driven And she is left alone in heaven; Or like a ship some gentle day In sunshine sailing far away, A glittering ship, that hath the plain Of ocean for her own domain. Lie silent in your graves, ye dead! Lie quiet in your churchyard bed! Ye living, tend your holy cares; Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; And blame not me if my heart and sight Are occupied with one delight! 'Tis a work for sabbath hours If I with this bright Creature go: Whether she be of forest bowers, From the bowers of earth below; Or a Spirit for one day given, A pledge 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 Leads through space of open day, Where the enamoured sunny light Brightens her that was so bright; Now doth a delicate shadow fall, Falls upon her like a breath, From some lofty arch or wall, As she passes underneath: Now some gloomy nook partakes Of the glory that she makes,-- High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell, With perfect cunning framed as well Of stone, and ivy, and the spread Of the elder's bushy head; Some jealous and forbidding cell, That doth the living stars repel, And where no flower hath leave to dwell. The presence of this wandering Doe Fills many a damp obscure recess With lustre of a saintly show; And, reappearing, she no less Sheds on the flowers that round her blow A more than sunny liveliness. But say, among these holy places, Which thus assiduously she paces, Comes she with a votary's task, Rite to perform, or boon to ask? Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense Of sorrow, or of reverence? Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, Crushed as if by wrath divine? For what survives of house where God Was worshipped, or where Man abode; For old magnificence undone; Or for the gentler work begun By Nature, softening and concealing, And busy with a hand of healing? Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth That to the sapling ash gives birth; For dormitory's length laid bare Where the wild rose blossoms fair; Or altar, whence the cross was rent, Now rich with mossy ornament? --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 prest, Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast; As little she regards 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 thus she fares, until at last Beside the ridge of a grassy grave In quietness she lays her down; Gentle as a weary wave Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, Against an anchored vessel's side; Even so, without distress, doth she Lie down in peace, and lovingly. The day is placid in its going, To a lingering motion bound, Like the crystal stream now flowing With its softest summer sound: So the balmy minutes pass, While this radiant Creature lies Couched upon the dewy grass, Pensively with downcast eyes. --But now again the people raise With awful cheer a voice of praise; It is the last, the parting song; And from the temple forth they throng, And quickly spread themselves abroad, While each pursues his several road. But some--a variegated band Of middle-aged, and old, and young, And little children by the hand Upon their leading mothers hung-- With mute obeisance gladly paid Turn towards the spot, where, full in view, The white Doe, to her service true, Her sabbath couch has made. It was a solitary mound; Which two spears' length of level ground Did from all other graves divide: As if in some respect of pride; Or melancholy's sickly mood, Still shy of human neighbourhood; Or guilt, that humbly would express A penitential loneliness. "Look, there she is, my Child! draw near; She fears not, wherefore should we fear? She means no harm;"--but still the Boy, To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, A shame-faced blush of glowing red! Again the Mother whispered low, "Now you have seen the famous Doe; From Rylstone she hath found her way Over the hills this sabbath day Her work, whate'er it be, is done, And she will depart when we are gone; Thus doth she keep, from year to year, Her sabbath morning, foul or fair." Bright was the Creature, as in dreams The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright; But is she truly what she seems? He asks with insecure delight, Asks of himself, and doubts,--and still The doubt returns against his will: Though he, and all the standers-by, Could tell a tragic history Of facts divulged, wherein appear Substantial motive, reason clear, Why thus the milk-white Doe is found Couchant beside that lonely mound; And why she duly loves to pace The circuit of this hallowed place. Nor to the Child's inquiring mind Is such perplexity confined: For, spite of sober Truth that sees A world of fixed remembrances Which to this mystery belong, If, undeceived, my skill can trace The characters of every face, There lack not strange delusion here, Conjecture vague, and idle fear, And superstitious fancies strong, Which do the gentle Creature wrong. That bearded, staff-supported Sire-- Who in his boyhood often fed Full cheerily on convent-bread And heard old tales by the convent-fire, And to his grave will go with scars, Relics of long and distant wars-- That Old Man, studious to expound The spectacle, is mounting high To days of dim antiquity; When Lady Aaliza 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 the grace Of God had in her heart found place-- A pious structure, fair to see Rose up, this stately Priory! The Lady's work;--but now laid low; To the grief of her soul that doth come and go, In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe: Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain, Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright; And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light. Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door; And, through the chink in the fractured floor Look down, and see a griesly sight; A vault where the bodies are buried upright! There, face by face, and hand by hand, The Claphams and Mauleverers stand; And, in his place, among son and sire, Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, A valiant man, and a name of dread In the ruthless wars of the White and Red; Who 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, 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. Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree-- Who counts among her ancestry Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously! That slender Youth, a scholar pale, From Oxford come to his native vale, He also hath his own conceit: It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet In his wanderings solitary: Wild notes she in his hearing sang, A song of Nature's hidden powers; That whistled like the wind, and rang Among the rocks and holly bowers. 'Twas said that She all shapes could wear; And oftentimes before him stood, Amid the trees of some thick wood, In semblance of a lady fair; And taught him signs, and showed him sights, In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights; When under cloud of fear he lay, A shepherd clad in homely grey; Nor left him at his later day. And hence, when he, with spear and shield, Rode full of years to Flodden-field, His eye could see the hidden spring, And how the current was to flow; The fatal end of Scotland's King, And all that hopeless overthrow. But not in wars did he delight, 'This' Clifford 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 lowly quietness. And choice of studious friends had he Of Bolton's dear fraternity; Who, standing on this old church tower, In many a calm propitious hour, Perused, with him, the starry sky; Or, in their cells, with him did pry For other lore,--by keen desire Urged to close toil with chemic fire; In quest belike of transmutations Rich as the mine's most bright creations. But they and their good works are fled, And all is now disquieted-- And peace is none, for living or dead! Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so, But look again at the radiant Doe! What quiet watch she seems to keep, Alone, beside that grassy heap! Why mention other thoughts unmeet For vision so composed and sweet? While stand the people in a ring, Gazing, doubting, questioning; Yea, many overcome in spite Of recollections clear and bright; Which yet do unto some impart An undisturbed repose of heart. And all the assembly own a law Of orderly respect and awe; But see--they vanish one by one, And last, the Doe herself is gone. Harp! we have been full long beguiled By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild; To which, with no reluctant strings, Thou hast attuned thy murmurings; And now before this Pile we stand In solitude, and utter peace: But, Harp! thy murmurs may not cease-- A Spirit, with his angelic wings, In soft and breeze-like visitings, Has touched thee--and a Spirit's hand: A voice is with us--a command To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, A tale of tears, a mortal story!

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0