To few triumphantly been given !
Still do our very children boast
Of mitred Thurston - what a host
He conquer'd! Saw we not the plain
(And flying shall behold again)
Where faith was proved, while to battle moved
The standard on the sacred wain,
On which the grey-hair'd barons stood,
And the infant heir of Mowbray's blood,
Beneath the saintly ensigns three,
Their confidence and victory?
Shall Percy blush, then, for his name
Must Westmorland be ask'd with shame
Whose were the numbers, where the loss,
In that other day of Neville's Cross?
When, as the vision gave command;
The Prior of Durham with holy hand
Saint Cuthbert's relic did uprear
Upon the point of a lofty spear,
And God descended in his power,
While the monks pray'd in maiden's bower.
Less would not at our need be due
To us, who war against the untrue;
The delegates of Heaven we rise,
Convoked the impious to chastise;
We, we the sanctities of old
Would re-establish and uphold.'
The chiefs were by his zeal confounded,
But word was given, and the trumpet sounded;
Back through the melancholy host
Went Norton, and resumed his post.
'Alas!' thought he, ‘and have I borne
This banner raised so joyfully,
This hope of all posterity,
Thus to become at once the scorn
Of babbling winds as they go by,
A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye,
To the frail clouds a mockery!'
'Even these poor eight of mine would stem
Half to himself, and half to them
He spake — ' would stem, or quell a force
Ten times their number, man and horse ;
This by their own unaided might,
Without their father in their sight,
Without the cause for which they fight;
A cause, which on a needful day
Would breed us thousands brave as they.'
—So speaking, he upraised his head
Towards that imagery once more;
But the familiar prospect shed
Despondency unfelt before;
A shock of intimations vain,
Blank fear, and superstitious pain,
Fell on him, with the sudden thought
Of her by whom the work was wrought;
'O wherefore was her count'nance bright
With love divine and gentle light?
She did in passiveness obey,
But her faith lean'd another way.
Ill tears she wept,
I saw them fall,
I overheard her as she spake
Sad words to that mute animal,
The white doe, in the hawthorn brake ;
She steep'd, but not for Jesu's sake,
This cross in tears: by her, and one
Unworthier far, we are undone
Her brother was it, who assail'd
Her tender spirit, and prevail'd.
Her other parent, too, whose head
In the cold grave hath long be laid,
From reason's earliest dawn beguiled
The docile, unsuspecting child:
far back my mind must go
To reach the well-spring of this woe?'
While thus he brooded, music sweet
Was play'd to cheer them in retreat ;
But Norton linger'd in the rear :
Thought follow'd thought—and ere the last
Of that unhappy train was pass'd,
Before him Francis did appear.
'Now, when 'tis not your aim t' oppose,' Said he, in open field your foes ; Now that from this decisive day Your multitude must melt away, An unarm'd man may come, unblamed, To ask a grace that was not claim'd Long as your hopes were high; he now May hither bring a fearless brow, When his discountenance can do No injury, may come to you. Though in your cause no part I bear, Your indignation I can share ;
Am grieved this backward march to see,
How careless and disorderly !
I scorn your chieftains -- men who lead,
And yet want courage at their need;
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?
My father! I would help to find
A place of shelter, till the rage
Of cruel men do like the wind
Exhaust itself, and sink to rest;
Be brother now to brother join'd!
Admit me in the equipage
Of your misfortunes, that at least,
Whatever fate remains behind,
I may bear witness in my breast
To your nobility of mind !'
'Thou enemy-my bane and blight!
Oh, bold to fight the coward's fight
Against all good! - but why declare
At length, the issue of this prayer?
Or how, from his depression raised,
The father on his son had gazed;
Suffice it that the son gave way,
Nor strove that passion to allay,
Nor did he turn aside to prove
His brothers' wisdom, or their love;
But calmly from the spot withdrew,
The like endeavours to renew,
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.
FROM cloudless ether looking down,
The moon, this tranquil evening, sees
A camp, and a beleaguer'd town,
And castle like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;
And, southward far, with moors between,
Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green,
The bright moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequester'd Hall
A venerable image yields
Of quiet to the neighbouring fields ;
While from one pillar'd chimney breathes
The silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths.
The courts are hush'd; for timely sleep
The greyhounds to their kennel creep;
The peacock in the broad ash-tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright,
Walk'd round, affronting the daylight;
And higher still, above the bower
Where he is perch'd, from yon lone tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
With glittering finger points at nine.
Ah! who could think that sadness here
Had any sway
or pain — or fear?
A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day;
The garden pool's dark surface — stirr❜d
By the night insects in their play —
Breaks into dimples small and bright;
A thousand, thousand rings of light
That shape themselves and disappear
Almost as soon as seen and lo!
Not distant far, the milk-white doe;
The same fair creature which was nigh,
Feeding in tranquillity,
When Francis utter'd to the maid
His last words in the yew-tree shade:
The same fair creature, who hath found
Her way into forbidden ground;
Where now, within this spacious plot
For pleasure made, a goodly spot,
With lawns, and beds of flowers, and shades
Of trellis-work, in long arcades,
And cirque and crescent framed by wall
Of close-clipp'd foliage green and tall,
Converging walks, and fountains gay,
And terraces in trim array,-
Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
With pine and cedar spreading wide
Their darksome boughs on either side,
In open moonlight doth she lie ;
Happy as others of her kind,
That, far from human neighbourhood,
Range unrestricted as the wind -
Through park, or chase, or savage wood.
But where at this still hour is she-
The consecrated Emily?
Even while I speak, behold the maid
Emerging from the cedar shade
To open moonshine, where the doe
Beneath the cypress spire is laid,
Like a patch of April snow
Upon a bed of herbage green
Lingering, in a woody glade,
Or behind a rocky screen-
Lonely relic! which, if seen
By the shepherd, is pass'd by
With an inattentive eye.
Nor more regard doth she bestow
Upon the uncomplaining doe!
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