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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540189" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Fourth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis night: in silence looking down,<br>The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees<br>A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, <br>And Castle, like a stately crown<br>On the steep rocks of winding Tees;--<br>And southward far, with moor between,<br>Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,<br>The bright Moon sees that valley small<br>Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall<br>A venerable image yields<br>Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;<br>While from one pillared chimney breathes<br>The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. <br>--The courts are hushed;--for timely sleep<br>The greyhounds to their kennel creep;<br>The peacock in the broad ash tree<br>Aloft is roosted for the night,<br>He who in proud prosperity<br>Of colours manifold and bright<br>Walked round, affronting the daylight;<br>And higher still, above the bower<br>Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower<br>The hall-clock in the clear moonshine <br>With glittering finger points at nine.<br>Ah! who could think that sadness here<br>Hath any sway? or pain, or fear?<br>A soft and lulling sound is heard<br>Of streams inaudible by day;<br>The garden pool's dark surface, stirred<br>By the night insects in their play,<br>Breaks into dimples small and bright;<br>A thousand, thousand rings of light<br>That shape themselves and disappear <br>Almost as soon as seen:--and lo!<br>Not distant far, the milk-white Doe--<br>The same who quietly was feeding<br>On the green herb, and nothing heeding,<br>When Francis, uttering to the Maid<br>His last words in the yew-tree shade,<br>Involved whate'er by love was brought<br>Out of his heart, or crossed his thought,<br>Or chance presented to his eye,<br>In one sad sweep of destiny-- <br>The same fair Creature, who hath found<br>Her way into forbidden ground;<br>Where now--within this spacious plot<br>For pleasure made, a goodly spot,<br>With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades<br>Of trellis-work in long arcades,<br>And cirque and crescent framed by wall<br>Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,<br>Converging walks, and fountains gay,<br>And terraces in trim array-- <br>Beneath yon cypress spiring high,<br>With pine and cedar spreading wide<br>Their darksome boughs on either side,<br>In open moonlight doth she lie;<br>Happy as others of her kind,<br>That, far from human neighbourhood,<br>Range unrestricted as the wind,<br>Through park, or chase, or savage wood.<br>But see the consecrated Maid<br>Emerging from a cedar shade <br>To open moonshine, where the Doe<br>Beneath the cypress-spire is laid;<br>Like a patch of April snow--<br>Upon a bed of herbage green,<br>Lingering in a woody glade<br>Or behind a rocky screen--<br>Lonely relic! which, if seen<br>By the shepherd, is passed by<br>With an inattentive eye.<br>Nor more regard doth She bestow <br>Upon the uncomplaining Doe<br>Now couched at ease, though oft this day<br>Not unperplexed nor free from pain,<br>When she had tried, and tried in vain,<br>Approaching in her gentle way,<br>To win some look of love, or gain<br>Encouragement to sport or play<br>Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid<br>Rejected, or with slight repaid.<br>Yet Emily is soothed;--the breeze <br>Came fraught with kindly sympathies.<br>As she approached yon rustic Shed<br>Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread<br>Along the walls and overhead,<br>The fragrance of the breathing flowers<br>Revived a memory of those hours<br>When here, in this remote alcove,<br>(While from the pendent woodbine came<br>Like odours, sweet as if the same)<br>A fondly-anxious Mother strove <br>To teach her salutary fears<br>And mysteries above her years.<br>Yes, she is soothed: an Image faint,<br>And yet not faint--a presence bright<br>Returns to her--that blessed Saint<br>Who with mild looks and language mild<br>Instructed here her darling Child,<br>While yet a prattler on the knee,<br>To worship in simplicity<br>The invisible God, and take for guide <br>The faith reformed and purified.<br>'Tis flown--the Vision, and the sense<br>Of that beguiling influence,<br>'But oh! thou Angel from above,<br>Mute Spirit of maternal love,<br>That stood'st before my eyes, more clear<br>Than ghosts are fabled to appear<br>Sent upon embassies of fear;<br>As thou thy presence hast to me<br>Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry <br>Descend on Francis; nor forbear<br>To greet him with a voice, and say;--<br>'If hope be a rejected stay,<br>'Do thou, my christian Son, beware<br>'Of that most lamentable snare,<br>'The self-reliance of despair!''<br>Then from within the embowered retreat<br>Where she had found a grateful seat<br>Perturbed she issues. She will go!<br>Herself will follow to the war, <br>And clasp her Father's knees;--ah, no!<br>She meets the insuperable bar,<br>The injunction by her Brother laid;<br>His parting charge--but ill obeyed--<br>That interdicted all debate,<br>All prayer for this cause or for that;<br>All efforts that would turn aside<br>The headstrong current of their fate:<br>'Her duty is to stand and wait;'<br>In resignation to abide <br>The shock, AND FINALLY SECURE<br>O'ER PAIN AND GRIEF A TRIUMPH PURE.<br>--She feels it, and her pangs are checked.<br>But now, as silently she paced<br>The turf, and thought by thought was chased,<br>Came One who, with sedate respect,<br>Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake;<br>'An old man's privilege I take:<br>Dark is the time--a woeful day!<br>Dear daughter of affliction, say <br>How can I serve you? point the way.'<br>'Rights have you, and may well be bold;<br>You with my Father have grown old<br>In friendship--strive--for his sake go--<br>Turn from us all the coming woe:<br>This would I beg; but on my mind<br>A passive stillness is enjoined.<br>On you, if room for mortal aid<br>Be left, is no restriction laid;<br>You not forbidden to recline <br>With hope upon the Will divine.'<br>'Hope,' said the old Man, 'must abide<br>With all of us, whate'er betide.<br>In Craven's Wilds is many a den,<br>To shelter persecuted men:<br>Far under ground is many a cave,<br>Where they might lie as in the grave,<br>Until this storm hath ceased to rave:<br>Or let them cross the River Tweed,<br>And be at once from peril freed!' <br>'Ah tempt me not!' she faintly sighed;<br>'I will not counsel nor exhort,<br>With my condition satisfied;<br>But you, at least, may make report<br>Of what befalls;--be this your task--<br>This may be done;--'tis all I ask!'<br>She spake--and from the Lady's sight<br>The Sire, unconscious of his age,<br>Departed promptly as a Page<br>Bound on some errand of delight. <br>--The noble Francis--wise as brave,<br>Thought he, may want not skill to save.<br>With hopes in tenderness concealed,<br>Unarmed he followed to the field;<br>Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers<br>Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,--<br>'Grant that the Moon which shines this night<br>May guide them in a prudent flight!'<br>But quick the turns of chance and change,<br>And knowledge has a narrow range; <br>Whence idle fears, and needless pain,<br>And wishes blind, and efforts vain.--<br>The Moon may shine, but cannot be<br>Their guide in flight--already she<br>Hath witnessed their captivity.<br>She saw the desperate assault<br>Upon that hostile castle made;--<br>But dark and dismal is the vault<br>Where Norton and his sons are laid!<br>Disastrous issue!--he had said <br>'This night yon faithless Towers must yield,<br>Or we for ever quit the field.<br>--Neville is utterly dismayed,<br>For promise fails of Howard's aid;<br>And Dacre to our call replies<br>That 'he' is unprepared to rise.<br>My heart is sick;--this weary pause<br>Must needs be fatal to our cause.<br>The breach is open--on the wall,<br>This night, the Banner shall be planted!' <br>--'Twas done: his Sons were with him--all;<br>They belt him round with hearts undaunted<br>And others follow;--Sire and Son<br>Leap down into the court;--''Tis won'--<br>They shout aloud--but Heaven decreed<br>That with their joyful shout should close<br>The triumph of a desperate deed<br>Which struck with terror friends and foes!<br>The friend shrinks back--the foe recoils<br>From Norton and his filial band; <br>But they, now caught within the toils,<br>Against a thousand cannot stand;--<br>The foe from numbers courage drew,<br>And overpowered that gallant few.<br>'A rescue for the Standard!' cried<br>The Father from within the walls;<br>But, see, the sacred Standard falls!--<br>Confusion through the Camp spread wide:<br>Some fled; and some their fears detained:<br>But ere the Moon had sunk to rest <br>In her pale chambers of the west,<br>Of that rash levy nought remained.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a><div class=q>
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The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
And Castle, like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;--
And southward far, with moor between,
Hill-top, and flood, and forest..."></div>
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