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,