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Degree of healing to a wounded spirit,
Dejected, and habitually disposed
To seek, in degradation of the Kind,
Excuse and solace for her own defects;
How far those erring notions were reformed;
And whether aught, of tendency as good
And pure, from further intercourse ensued;
This if delighted hopes, as heretofore,
Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past
My future labours may not leave untold.

THE

WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE;

CR,

THE FATE OF THE NORTONS.

"Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind;
Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty, assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:

'Tis her's to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

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 Churchyard during divine service; after the close of which she return3d home as regularly as the rest of the congregation.”

191

IN trellis'd shed with clustering roses gay,
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
How Una, sad of soul-in sad attire,
The gentle Una, born of heavenly birth,

To seek her knight went wandering o'er the earth.

Ah, then, beloved! pleasing was the smart,

And the tear precious in compassion shed

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,

And faithful, loyal in her innocence,

Like the brave lion slain in her defence.

Notes could we hear as of a fairy shell
Attuned to words with sacred music fraught;
Free fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught;
Till, in the bosom of our rustic cell,

We by a lamentable change were taught

That "bliss with mortal man may not abide;"How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

For as the stream of fiction ceased to flow,

For us the voice of melody was mute.

-But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And gave the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit,
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

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
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.

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
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.

This tragic story cheered us; for it speaks
Of female patience winning firm repose;
And of the recompense which 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

A happy hour with holier happiness.

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-
Vain aspirations of an earnest will!
Yet in this mortal strain a power may live,
Beloved Wife! such solace to impart
As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

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THE

WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.

CANTO FIRST.

FROM Bolton's old monastic tower
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun is bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of the 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 rural Chapel, neatly drest,
In covert like a little nest;

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 sun-rise now of zeal,
And faith and hope are in their prime,

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