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 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 churchyard 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 gift of 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 Is through space of open day, Where the enamour'd 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-ribb'd 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, re-appearing, she no less To the open day gives blessedness. 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, Crush'd as if by wrath divine?
For what survives of house where God Was worshipp'd, 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, The altar, whence the cross was rent, Now rich with mossy ornament, The dormitory's length laid bare, Where the wild-rose blossoms fair; And sapling ash, whose place of birth Is that lordly chamber's hearth? She sees a warrior carved in stone, Among the thick weeds stretch'd alone; A warrior, with his shield of pride Cleaving humbly to his side, And hands in resignation press'd,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast: Methinks she passeth by the sight, As a common creature might; If she be doom'd 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 in this way she fares, till at last Beside the ridge of a grassy grave In quietness she lays her down; Gently as a weary wave
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, Against an anchor'd 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 river in its flowing: Can there be a softer sound? So the balmy minutes pass, While this radiant creatures lies Couch'd upon the dewy grass, Pensively with downcast eyes. When now again the people rear A voice of praise with awful cheer! 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, Turn, with obeisance gladly paid, Towards the spot, where full in view, The lovely doe of whitest hue, 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 blush'd for joy, A shame-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.'
This whisper soft repeats what he Had known from early infancy. Bright is the creature
The boy had seen her
as in dreams
- 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 hallow'd place.
Nor to the child's inquiring mind Is such perplexity confined:
For spite of sober Truth, that sees A world of fix'd remembrances Which to this mystery belong, If, undeceived, my skill can trace The characters of every face, There lack not strange delusions here, Conjecture vague, and idle fear, And superstitious fancies strong, Which do the gentle creature wrong.
That bearded, staff-supported sire (Who in his youth had often fed Full cheerily on convent bread, And heard old tales by the convent fire, And lately hath brought home the scars Gather'd in long and distant wars), That old man studious to expound The spectacle- hath mounted high To days of dim antiquity; When Lady Aäliza mourn'd Her son, and felt in her despair, The pang of unavailing prayer;
Her son in Wharf's abysses drown'd,
The noble Boy of Egremound.
From which affliction, when God's grace At length 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 doom'd in its breast to sustain
A soften'd 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,
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