William Wordsworth

The White Doe Of Rylstone 3

Canto Third

NOW joy for you who from the towers Of Brancepeth look 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 descry, Well-pleased, the armed Company Marching down the banks of Were. Said fearless Norton to the pair Gone forth to greet him on the plain-- "This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair, I bring with me a goodly train; Their hearts are with you: hill and dale Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and Swale, And horse and harness followed--see The best part of their Yeomanry! --Stand forth, my Sons!--these eight are mine, Whom to this service I commend; Which way soe'er our 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, Love's 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 Brancepeth 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 hate in kind Through all things else, in this can find A mutual hope, a common mind; And plot, and pant 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 in joy to her return. Behold!"--and from his Son whose stand Was on his right, from 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 bring I from an ancient hearth, These Records wrought in pledge of love By hands of no ignoble 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 ye 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 emblazonry, A voice of uttermost joy brake out: The transport was rolled down the river of Were, And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear, And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by the shout! Now was the North in arms:--they shine In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, At Percy's voice: and Neville sees His Followers gathering in from Tees, From Were, and all the little rills Concealed among the forked hills-- Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all Of Neville, at their Master's call Had sate together in Raby Hall! Such strength that Earldom held of yore; Nor wanted at this time rich store Of well-appointed chivalry. --Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, And greet the old paternal shield, They heard the summons;--and, furthermore, Horsemen and Foot of each degree, Unbound by pledge of fealty, Appeared, with free and open hate Of novelties in Church and State; Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire; And Romish priest, in priest's attire. And thus, in arms, a zealous Band Proceeding under joint command, To Durham first their course they bear; And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat Sang mass,--and tore the book of prayer,-- And trod the bible beneath their feet. Thence marching 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 beauty and for worth Like those eight Sons--who, in a ring, (Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring) Each with a lance, erect and tall, A falchion, and a buckler small, Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor, To guard the Standard which he bore. On foot they girt their Father round; And so will keep the appointed ground Where'er their march: no steed will he Henceforth bestride;--triumphantly, He stands upon the grassy 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 undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height; Magnific limbs of withered state; A face to fear and venerate; Eyes dark and strong; and on his head Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread, Which a brown morion half-concealed, Light as a hunter's 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?--thousands see, and One With unparticipated gaze; Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath none, And treads in solitary ways. He, following wheresoe'er he might, Hath watched the Banner from afar, As shepherds watch a lonely star, Or mariners the distant light That guides them through a stormy night. And now, upon a chosen plot Of rising ground, yon heathy spot! He takes alone his far-off stand, With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand. Bold 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, Upon the turf-clad height he lies Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask In sunshine were his only task, Or by his mantle's help to find A shelter from the nipping wind: And thus, with short oblivion blest, 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, He thence may learn, ere fall of night, Which way the tide is doomed to flow. To London were the Chieftains bent; But what avails the bold intent? A Royal army is gone forth To quell the RISING OF THE NORTH; They march with Dudley at their head, And, in seven days' space, will to York be led!-- Can such a mighty Host be raised Thus suddenly, and brought so near? The Earls upon each other gazed, And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear; For, with a high and valiant name, He bore a heart of timid frame; And bold if both had been, yet they "Against so many may not stay." Back therefore will they hie to seize A strong Hold on the banks of Tees There wait a favourable hour, Until Lord Dacre with his power From Naworth come; 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 trusting to the care Of him who heretofore did bear That charge, impatient Norton sought The Chieftains to unfold his thought, And thus abruptly spake;--"We yield (And can it be?) an unfought field!-- How oft has strength, the strength of heaven, To few triumphantly been given! Still do our very children boast Of mitred Thurston--what a Host He conquered!--Saw we not the Plain (And flying shall behold again) Where faith was proved?--while to battle moved The Standard, on the Sacred Wain That bore it, compassed round by a bold Fraternity of Barons old; And with those grey-haired champions stood, Under the saintly ensigns three, The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood-- All confident of victory!-- Shall Percy blush, then, for his name? Must Westmoreland be asked with shame Whose were the numbers, where the loss, In that other day of Neville's Cross? When the Prior of Durham with holy hand Raised, as the Vision gave command, Saint Cuthbert's Relic--far and near Kenned on the point of a lofty spear; While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower To God descending in his power. Less would not at our need be due To us, who war against the Untrue;-- The delegates of Heaven we rise, Convoked the impious to chastise: We, we, the sanctities of old Would re-establish and uphold: Be warned"--His zeal the Chiefs 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 with joyful pride, This hope of all posterity, By those dread symbols sanctified; Thus to become at once the scorn Of babbling winds as they go by, A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, To the light clouds a 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 us thousands brave as they." --So speaking, he his reverend head Raised towards that Imagery once more: But the familiar prospect shed Despondency unfelt before: A shock of intimations vain, Dismay, 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 would not, could not, disobey, 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 brake; She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, This Cross in tears: by her, and One Unworthier far we are undone-- Her recreant Brother--he prevailed Over that tender Spirit--assailed Too oft, alas! by her whose head In the cold grave hath long been laid: She first, in reason's dawn beguiled Her docile, unsuspecting Child: Far back--far back my mind must go To reach the well-spring of this woe! While thus he brooded, music sweet Of border tunes was played to cheer The footsteps of a quick retreat; But Norton lingered in the rear, Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last From his distracted brain was cast, Before his Father, Francis stood, And spake in firm and earnest mood. "Though here I bend a suppliant knee In reverence, and unarmed, I bear In your indignant thoughts my share; Am grieved this backward march to see So careless and disorderly. I scorn your Chiefs--men who would lead, And yet want courage at their need: Then look at them with open eyes! Deserve they further sacrifice?-- If--when they shrink, nor dare oppose In open field their gathering foes, (And fast, from this decisive day, Yon multitude must melt away If now I ask a grace not claimed While ground was left for hope; unblamed Be an endeavour that can do No injury to them or you. 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 equipage Of your misfortunes, that at least, Whatever fate remain behind, I may bear witness in my breast To your nobility of mind!" "Thou Enemy, my bane and blight! Oh! bold to fight the Coward's fight Against all good"--but why declare, At length, the issue of a prayer Which love had prompted, yielding scope Too free to one bright moment's hope? Suffice it that the Son, who strove With fruitless effort to allay That passion, prudently gave way; Nor did he turn aside to prove His Brothers' wisdom or their love-- But calmly from the spot withdrew; His best endeavours to renew, Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.

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