It soothed us-it beguiled us-then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near
The pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel;
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
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 1-to whom Heaven
A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

This tragic story cheered 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;
Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil

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.

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 the 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 rural chapel, neatly dressed,
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 sunrise 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
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 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 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, 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,
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,—
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 stretched alone;
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,

And hands in resignation pressed,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast:
Methinks she passeth by 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 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 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 river in its flowing :
Can there be a softer sound?
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant creature lies
Couched 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.

66

'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 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.