LORD BACON.

From Bolton's old monastic tower

The bells ring loud with gladsome power;

The sun shinesbright; 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 church-yard 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 church-yard 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 church-yard 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 pledgeof 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 throughspace 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;

Gentleas 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 shamed-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 wasthe 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 mountinghigh

To days of dim antiquity;

When Lady Aaeliza 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 Cumbrianheights;

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 lowlyquietness.

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!