Then, with mild Una in her sober chear,
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!

Heaven

-to whom

A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

This tragic Story cheared 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 fulfill
The comprehensive mandate which they give-
Vain aspiration of an earnest will !

Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
Beloved Wife! such solace to impart

As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND,

April 20, 1815.

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 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
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.

way,

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 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 sun-rise now of zeal,

And faith and hope are in their 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; And right across the verdant sod

Towards the very house of God;

-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