William Wordsworth

The White Doe Of Rylstone 7

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." 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 To hide her poor afflicted head? What mighty forest in its gloom Enfolds her?--is a rifted tomb Within the wilderness her seat? Some island which the wild waves beat-- Is that the Sufferer's last retreat? Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds Its perilous front in mists and clouds? High-climbing rock, low sunless dale, Sea, desert, what do these avail? Oh take her anguish and her fears Into a deep recess of years! 'Tis done;--despoil and desolation O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown; Pools, terraces, and walks are sown With weeds; the bowers are overthrown, Or have given way to slow mutation, While, in their ancient habitation The Norton name hath been unknown. The lordly Mansion of its pride Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide Through park and field, a perishing That mocks the gladness of the Spring! And, with this silent gloom agreeing, Appears a joyless human Being, Of aspect such as if the waste Were under her dominion placed. Upon a primrose bank, her throne Of quietness, she sits alone; Among the ruins of a wood, 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, Neglecting in imperial state These outward images of fate, And carrying inward a serene And perfect sway, through many a thought Of chance and change, that hath been brought To the subjection of a holy, Though stern and rigorous, melancholy! The like authority, with grace Of awfulness, is in her face,-- There hath she fixed it; yet it seems To o'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: 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. And she 'hath' wandered, long and far, Beneath the light of sun and star; Hath roamed in trouble and in grief, Driven forward like a withered leaf, Yea like a ship at random blown To distant places and unknown. But now she dares to seek a haven Among her native wilds of Craven; Hath seen again her Father's roof, And put her fortitude to proof; The mighty sorrow hath 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 The infirmities of mortal love; Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, And awfully impenetrable. And so--beneath a mouldered tree, A self-surviving leafless oak 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 Hath separated from its kind, To live and die in a shady bower, Single on the gladsome earth. When, with a noise like distant thunder, A troop of deer came sweeping by; And, suddenly, behold a wonder! For One, among those rushing deer, A single One, in mid career Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye Upon the Lady Emily; 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, Drew softly near her, and more near-- Looked round--but saw no cause for fear; So to her feet the Creature came, And laid its head upon her knee, And looked into the Lady's face, A look of pure benignity, And fond unclouded memory. It is, thought Emily, the same, The very Doe of other years!-- The pleading look the Lady viewed, And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, She melted into tears-- A flood of tears, that flowed apace, Upon the happy Creature's face. Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care, This was for you a precious greeting; And may it prove a fruitful meeting! Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe Can she depart? can she forego 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? 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? That day, the first of a re-union 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 sylvan haunt withdrew, 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 Once owned her Father for his Lord; A hut, by tufted trees defended, Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended. When Emily by morning light Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight. She shrunk:--with one frail shock of pain Received and followed by a prayer, She saw the Creature once again; Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;-- But, wheresoever she looked round, All now was trouble-haunted ground; And therefore now she deems it good Once more this restless neighbourhood To leave.--Unwooed, yet unforbidden, The White Doe followed up the vale, Up to another cottage, hidden In the deep fork of Amerdale; And there may Emily restore Herself, in spots unseen before. --Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, 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-- 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,-- From looks conceiving her desire; From look, deportment, voice, or mien, That vary to the heart within. If she too passionately wreathed Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, Walked quick or slowly, every mood In its degree was understood; Then well may their accord be true, And kindliest intercourse ensue. --Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing 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! 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, White as whitest cloud on high Floating through the azure sky. --What now is left for pain or fear? That Presence, dearer and more dear, While they, side by side, were straying, And the shepherd's pipe was playing, Did now a very gladness yield At morning to the dewy field, And with a deeper peace endued The hour of moonlight solitude. With her Companion, in such frame Of mind, to Rylstone back she came; And, ranging through the wasted groves, Received the memory of old loves, Undisturbed and undistrest, Into a soul which now was blest With a soft spring-day of holy, Mild, and grateful, melancholy: Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, But by tender fancies brightened. When the bells of Rylstone played Their sabbath music--"God us ayde!" That was the sound they seemed to speak; Inscriptive legend which I ween May on those holy bells be seen, 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, 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 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, Her fate there measuring;--all is stilled,-- The weak One hath subdued her heart; Behold the prophecy fulfilled, Fulfilled, and she sustains her part! But here her Brother's words have failed; Here hath a milder doom prevailed; That she, of him and all bereft, Hath yet this faithful Partner left; This one Associate, that disproves His words, remains for her, and loves. If tears are shed, they do not fall For loss of him--for one, or all; Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep; A few tears down her cheek descend For this her last and living Friend. Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, And bless for both this savage spot; Which Emily doth sacred hold For reasons dear and manifold-- Here hath she, here before her sight, Close to the summit of this height, The grassy rock-encircled Pound In which the Creature first was found. So beautiful the timid Thrall (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! 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 To look upon Saint Mary's shrine; 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: 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; How happy in its turn to meet The recognition! the mild glance Beamed from that gracious countenance; Communication, like the ray Of a new morning, to the nature And prospects of the inferior Creature! A mortal Song we sing, by dower Encouraged of celestial power; Power which the viewless Spirit shed By whom we were first visited; Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, When, left in solitude, erewhile We stood before this ruined Pile, And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, Sang in this Presence kindred themes; Distress and desolation spread Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,-- Dead--but to live again on earth, A second and yet nobler birth; Dire overthrow, and yet how high The re-ascent in sanctity! From fair to fairer; day by day A more divine and loftier way! Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, By sorrow lifted towards her God; Uplifted to the purest sky Of undisturbed mortality. Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend A dear look to her lowly Friend; There stopped; her thirst was satisfied With what this innocent spring supplied: Her sanction inwardly she bore, And stood apart from human cares: But to the world returned no more, Although with no unwilling mind Help did she give at need, and joined The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers. At length, thus faintly, faintly tied To earth, she was set free, and died. 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. 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, Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace; And bears a memory and a mind Raised far above the law of kind; Haunting the spots with lonely cheer Which her dear Mistress once held dear: Loves most what Emily loved most-- The enclosure of this churchyard ground; Here wanders like a gliding ghost, And every sabbath here is found; Comes with the people when the bells Are heard among the moorland dells, Finds entrance through yon arch, where way Lies open on the sabbath-day; Here walks amid the mournful waste Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, And floors encumbered with rich show Of fret-work imagery laid low; Paces softly, or makes halt, By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault; By plate of monumental brass Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave: But chiefly by that single grave, That one sequestered hillock green, The pensive visitant is seen. 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, 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!"

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