CANTO SIXTH

Why comes not Francis?— From the doleful City

He fled,— and, in his flight, could hear

The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:

That sullen stroke pronounced farewell

To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!

To Ambrose that! and then a knell

For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!

For all — all dying in one hour!

— Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love

Should bear him to his Sister dear

With the fleet motion of a dove;

Yea, like a heavenly messenger

Of speediest wing, should he appear.

Why comes he not?— for westward fast

Along the plain of York he past;

Reckless of what impels or leads,

Unchecked he hurries on;— nor heeds

The sorrow, through the Villages,

Spread by triumphant cruelties

Of vengeful military force,

And punishment without remorse.

He marked not, heard not, as he fled;

All but the suffering heart was dead

For him abandoned to blank awe,

To vacancy, and horror strong:

And the first object which he saw,

With conscious sight, as he swept along —

It was the Banner in his hand!

He felt — and made a sudden stand.

He looked about like one betrayed:

What hath he done? what promise made?

Oh weak, weak moment! to what end

Can such a vain oblation tend,

And he the Bearer?— Can he go

Carrying this instrument of woe,

And find, find any where, a right

To excuse him in his Country's sight?

No; will not all men deem the change

A downward course, perverse and strange?

Here is it;— but how? when? must she,

The unoffending Emily,

Again this piteous object see?

Such conflict long did he maintain,

Nor liberty nor rest could gain:

His own life into danger brought

By this sad burden — even that thought,

Exciting self-suspicion strong,

Swayed the brave man to his wrong.

And how — unless it were the sense

Of all-disposing Providence,

Its will unquestionably shown —

How has the Banner clung so fast

To a palsied, and unconscious hand;

Clung to the hand to which it passed

Without impediment? And why

But that Heaven's purpose might be known,

Doth now no hindrance meet his eye,

No intervention, to withstand

Fulfilment of a Father's prayer

Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest

When all resentments were at rest,

And life in death laid the heart bare?—

Then, like a spectre sweeping by,

Rushed through his mind the prophecy

Of utter desolation made

To Emily in the yew-tree shade:

He sighed, submitting will and power

To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.

“No choice is left, the deed is mine —

Dead are they, dead!— and I will go,

And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,

Will lay the Relic on the shrine.”

So forward with a steady will

He went, and traversed plain and hill;

And up the vale of Wharf his way

Pursued;— and, at the dawn of day,

Attained a summit whence his eyes

Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.

There Francis for a moment's space

Made halt — but hark! a noise behind

Of horsemen at an eager pace!

He heard, and with misgiving mind.

—‘ Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:

They come, by cruel Sussex sent;

Who, when the Nortons from the hand

Of death had drunk their punishment,

Bethought him, angry and ashamed,

How Francis, with the Banner claimed

As his own charge, had disappeared,

By all the standers-by revered.

His whole bold carriage ( which had quelled

Thus far the Opposer, and repelled

All censure, enterprise so bright

That even bad men had vainly striven

Against that overcoming light )

Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,

That to what place soever fled

He should be seized, alive or dead.

The troop of horse have gained the height

Where Francis stood in open sight.

They hem him round — “Behold the proof,”

They cried, “the Ensign in his hand!

He did not arm, he walked aloof!

For why?— to save his Father's land;—

Worst Traitor of them all is he,

A Traitor dark and cowardly!”

“I am no Traitor,” Francis said,

“Though this unhappy freight I bear;

And must not part with. But beware;—

Err not, by hasty zeal misled,

Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,

Whose self-reproaches are too strong!”

At this he from the beaten road

Retreated towards a brake of thorn,

Thatlike a place of vantage showed;

And there stood bravely, though forlorn.

In self-defence with warlike brow

He stood,— nor weaponless was now;

He from a Soldier's hand had snatched

A spear,— and, so protected, watched

The Assailants, turning round and round;

But from behind with treacherous wound

A Spearman brought him to the ground.

The guardian lance, as Francis fell,

Dropped from him; but his other hand

The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,

One, the most eager for the prize,

Rushed in; and — while, O grief to tell!

A glimmering sense still left, with eyes

Unclosed the noble Francis lay —

Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;

But not before the warm life-blood

Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,

The wounds the broidered Banner showed,

Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good!

Proudly the Horsemen bore away

The Standard; and where Francis lay

There was he left alone, unwept,

And for two days unnoticed slept.

For at that time bewildering fear

Possessed the country, far and near;

But, on the third day, passing by

One of the Norton Tenantry

Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man

Shrunk as he recognised the face,

And to the nearest homesteads ran

And called the people to the place.

— How desolate is Rylstone-hall!

This was the instant thought of all;

And if the lonely Lady there

Should be; to her they cannot bear

This weight of anguish and despair.

So, when upon sad thoughts had prest

Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best

That, if the Priest should yield assent

And no one hinder their intent,

Then, they, for Christian pity's sake,

In holy ground a grave would make;

And straightwayburied he should be

In the Church-yard of the Priory.

Apart, some little space, was made

The grave where Francis must be laid.

In no confusion or neglect

This did they,— but in pure respect

That he was born of gentle blood;

And that there was no neighbourhood

Of kindred for him in that ground:

So to the Church-yard they are bound,

Bearing the body on a bier;

And psalms they sing — a holy sound

That hill and vale with sadness hear.

But Emily hath raised her head,

And is again disquieted;

She must behold!— so many gone,

Where is the solitary One?

And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,

To seek her Brother forth she went,

And tremblingly her course she bent

TowardBolton's ruined Priory.

She comes, and in the vale hath heard

The funeral dirge;— she sees the knot

Of people, sees them in one spot —

And darting like a wounded bird

She reached the grave, and with her breast

Upon the ground received the rest,—

The consummation, the whole ruth

And sorrow of this final truth!