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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540191" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Seventh</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Powers there are<br>That touch each other to the quick--in modes<br>Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,<br>No soul to dream of.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THOU Spirit, whose angelic hand<br>Was to the harp a strong command,<br>Called the submissive strings to wake<br>In glory for this Maiden's sake,<br>Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled<br>To hide her poor afflicted head?<br>What mighty forest in its gloom<br>Enfolds her?--is a rifted tomb<br>Within the wilderness her seat?<br>Some island which the wild waves beat-- <br>Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?<br>Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds<br>Its perilous front in mists and clouds?<br>High-climbing rock, low sunless dale,<br>Sea, desert, what do these avail?<br>Oh take her anguish and her fears<br>Into a deep recess of years!<br>'Tis done;--despoil and desolation<br>O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;<br>Pools, terraces, and walks are sown <br>With weeds; the bowers are overthrown,<br>Or have given way to slow mutation,<br>While, in their ancient habitation<br>The Norton name hath been unknown.<br>The lordly Mansion of its pride<br>Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide<br>Through park and field, a perishing<br>That mocks the gladness of the Spring!<br>And, with this silent gloom agreeing,<br>Appears a joyless human Being, <br>Of aspect such as if the waste<br>Were under her dominion placed.<br>Upon a primrose bank, her throne<br>Of quietness, she sits alone;<br>Among the ruins of a wood,<br>Erewhile a covert bright and green,<br>And where full many a brave tree stood,<br>That used to spread its boughs, and ring<br>With the sweet bird's carolling.<br>Behold her, like a virgin Queen, <br>Neglecting in imperial state<br>These outward images of fate,<br>And carrying inward a serene<br>And perfect sway, through many a thought<br>Of chance and change, that hath been brought<br>To the subjection of a holy,<br>Though stern and rigorous, melancholy!<br>The like authority, with grace<br>Of awfulness, is in her face,--<br>There hath she fixed it; yet it seems <br>To o'ershadow by no native right<br>That face, which cannot lose the gleams,<br>Lose utterly the tender gleams,<br>Of gentleness and meek delight,<br>And loving-kindness ever bright:<br>Such is her sovereign mien:--her dress<br>(A vest with woollen cincture tied,<br>A hood of mountain-wool undyed)<br>Is homely,--fashioned to express<br>A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. <br>And she 'hath' wandered, long and far,<br>Beneath the light of sun and star;<br>Hath roamed in trouble and in grief,<br>Driven forward like a withered leaf,<br>Yea like a ship at random blown<br>To distant places and unknown.<br>But now she dares to seek a haven<br>Among her native wilds of Craven;<br>Hath seen again her Father's roof,<br>And put her fortitude to proof; <br>The mighty sorrow hath been borne,<br>And she is thoroughly forlorn:<br>Her soul doth in itself stand fast,<br>Sustained by memory of the past<br>And strength of Reason; held above<br>The infirmities of mortal love;<br>Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable,<br>And awfully impenetrable.<br>And so--beneath a mouldered tree,<br>A self-surviving leafless oak <br>By unregarded age from stroke<br>Of ravage saved--sate Emily.<br>There did she rest, with head reclined,<br>Herself most like a stately flower,<br>(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth<br>Hath separated from its kind,<br>To live and die in a shady bower,<br>Single on the gladsome earth.<br>When, with a noise like distant thunder,<br>A troop of deer came sweeping by; <br>And, suddenly, behold a wonder!<br>For One, among those rushing deer,<br>A single One, in mid career<br>Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye<br>Upon the Lady Emily;<br>A Doe most beautiful, clear-white,<br>A radiant creature, silver-bright!<br>Thus checked, a little while it stayed;<br>A little thoughtful pause it made;<br>And then advanced with stealth-like pace, <br>Drew softly near her, and more near--<br>Looked round--but saw no cause for fear;<br>So to her feet the Creature came,<br>And laid its head upon her knee,<br>And looked into the Lady's face,<br>A look of pure benignity,<br>And fond unclouded memory.<br>It is, thought Emily, the same,<br>The very Doe of other years!--<br>The pleading look the Lady viewed, <br>And, by her gushing thoughts subdued,<br>She melted into tears--<br>A flood of tears, that flowed apace,<br>Upon the happy Creature's face.<br>Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair<br>Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care,<br>This was for you a precious greeting;<br>And may it prove a fruitful meeting!<br>Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe<br>Can she depart? can she forego <br>The Lady, once her playful peer,<br>And now her sainted Mistress dear?<br>And will not Emily receive<br>This lovely chronicler of things<br>Long past, delights and sorrowings?<br>Lone Sufferer! will not she believe<br>The promise in that speaking face;<br>And welcome, as a gift of grace,<br>The saddest thought the Creature brings?<br>That day, the first of a re-union <br>Which was to teem with high communion,<br>That day of balmy April weather,<br>They tarried in the wood together.<br>And when, ere fall of evening dew,<br>She from her sylvan haunt withdrew,<br>The White Doe tracked with faithful pace<br>The Lady to her dwelling-place;<br>That nook where, on paternal ground,<br>A habitation she had found,<br>The Master of whose humble board <br>Once owned her Father for his Lord;<br>A hut, by tufted trees defended,<br>Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.<br>When Emily by morning light<br>Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight.<br>She shrunk:--with one frail shock of pain<br>Received and followed by a prayer,<br>She saw the Creature once again;<br>Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;--<br>But, wheresoever she looked round, <br>All now was trouble-haunted ground;<br>And therefore now she deems it good<br>Once more this restless neighbourhood<br>To leave.--Unwooed, yet unforbidden,<br>The White Doe followed up the vale,<br>Up to another cottage, hidden<br>In the deep fork of Amerdale;<br>And there may Emily restore<br>Herself, in spots unseen before.<br>--Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, <br>By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,<br>Haunts of a strengthening amity<br>That calmed her, cheered, and fortified?<br>For she hath ventured now to read<br>Of time, and place, and thought, and deed--<br>Endless history that lies<br>In her silent Follower's eyes;<br>Who with a power like human reason<br>Discerns the favourable season,<br>Skilled to approach or to retire,-- <br>From looks conceiving her desire;<br>From look, deportment, voice, or mien,<br>That vary to the heart within.<br>If she too passionately wreathed<br>Her arms, or over-deeply breathed,<br>Walked quick or slowly, every mood<br>In its degree was understood;<br>Then well may their accord be true,<br>And kindliest intercourse ensue.<br>--Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing <br>When she by sudden glimpse espied<br>The White Doe on the mountain browsing,<br>Or in the meadow wandered wide!<br>How pleased, when down the Straggler sank<br>Beside her, on some sunny bank!<br>How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed,<br>They, like a nested pair, reposed!<br>Fair Vision! when it crossed the Maid<br>Within some rocky cavern laid,<br>The dark cave's portal gliding by, <br>White as whitest cloud on high<br>Floating through the azure sky.<br>--What now is left for pain or fear?<br>That Presence, dearer and more dear,<br>While they, side by side, were straying,<br>And the shepherd's pipe was playing,<br>Did now a very gladness yield<br>At morning to the dewy field,<br>And with a deeper peace endued<br>The hour of moonlight solitude. <br>With her Companion, in such frame<br>Of mind, to Rylstone back she came;<br>And, ranging through the wasted groves,<br>Received the memory of old loves,<br>Undisturbed and undistrest,<br>Into a soul which now was blest<br>With a soft spring-day of holy,<br>Mild, and grateful, melancholy:<br>Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,<br>But by tender fancies brightened. <br>When the bells of Rylstone played<br>Their sabbath music--'God us ayde!'<br>That was the sound they seemed to speak;<br>Inscriptive legend which I ween<br>May on those holy bells be seen,<br>That legend and her Grandsire's name;<br>And oftentimes the Lady meek<br>Had in her childhood read the same;<br>Words which she slighted at that day;<br>But now, when such sad change was wrought, <br>And of that lonely name she thought--<br>The bells of Rylstone seemed to say,<br>While she sate listening in the shade,<br>With vocal music, 'God us ayde;'<br>And all the hills were glad to bear<br>Their part in this effectual prayer.<br>Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power;<br>But with the White Doe at her side<br>Up would she climb to Norton Tower,<br>And thence look round her far and wide, <br>Her fate there measuring;--all is stilled,--<br>The weak One hath subdued her heart;<br>Behold the prophecy fulfilled,<br>Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!<br>But here her Brother's words have failed;<br>Here hath a milder doom prevailed;<br>That she, of him and all bereft,<br>Hath yet this faithful Partner left;<br>This one Associate, that disproves<br>His words, remains for her, and loves. <br>If tears are shed, they do not fall<br>For loss of him--for one, or all;<br>Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep<br>Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;<br>A few tears down her cheek descend<br>For this her last and living Friend.<br>Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot,<br>And bless for both this savage spot;<br>Which Emily doth sacred hold<br>For reasons dear and manifold-- <br>Here hath she, here before her sight,<br>Close to the summit of this height,<br>The grassy rock-encircled Pound<br>In which the Creature first was found.<br>So beautiful the timid Thrall<br>(A spotless Youngling white as foam)<br>Her youngest Brother brought it home;<br>The youngest, then a lusty boy,<br>Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall<br>With heart brimful of pride and joy! <br>But most to Bolton's sacred Pile,<br>On favouring nights, she loved to go;<br>There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,<br>Attended by the soft-paced Doe;<br>Nor feared she in the still moonshine<br>To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;<br>Nor on the lonely turf that showed<br>Where Francis slept in his last abode.<br>For that she came; there oft she sate<br>Forlorn, but not disconsolate: <br>And, when she from the abyss returned<br>Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;<br>Was happy that she lived to greet<br>Her mute Companion as it lay<br>In love and pity at her feet;<br>How happy in its turn to meet<br>The recognition! the mild glance<br>Beamed from that gracious countenance;<br>Communication, like the ray<br>Of a new morning, to the nature <br>And prospects of the inferior Creature!<br>A mortal Song we sing, by dower<br>Encouraged of celestial power;<br>Power which the viewless Spirit shed<br>By whom we were first visited;<br>Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings<br>Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,<br>When, left in solitude, erewhile<br>We stood before this ruined Pile,<br>And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, <br>Sang in this Presence kindred themes;<br>Distress and desolation spread<br>Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,--<br>Dead--but to live again on earth,<br>A second and yet nobler birth;<br>Dire overthrow, and yet how high<br>The re-ascent in sanctity!<br>From fair to fairer; day by day<br>A more divine and loftier way!<br>Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, <br>By sorrow lifted towards her God;<br>Uplifted to the purest sky<br>Of undisturbed mortality.<br>Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend<br>A dear look to her lowly Friend;<br>There stopped; her thirst was satisfied<br>With what this innocent spring supplied:<br>Her sanction inwardly she bore,<br>And stood apart from human cares:<br>But to the world returned no more, <br>Although with no unwilling mind<br>Help did she give at need, and joined<br>The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers.<br>At length, thus faintly, faintly tied<br>To earth, she was set free, and died.<br>Thy soul, exalted Emily,<br>Maid of the blasted family,<br>Rose to the God from whom it came!<br>--In Rylstone Church her mortal frame<br>Was buried by her Mother's side. <br>Most glorious sunset! and a ray<br>Survives--the twilight of this day--<br>In that fair Creature whom the fields<br>Support, and whom the forest shields;<br>Who, having filled a holy place,<br>Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace;<br>And bears a memory and a mind<br>Raised far above the law of kind;<br>Haunting the spots with lonely cheer<br>Which her dear Mistress once held dear: <br>Loves most what Emily loved most--<br>The enclosure of this churchyard ground;<br>Here wanders like a gliding ghost,<br>And every sabbath here is found;<br>Comes with the people when the bells<br>Are heard among the moorland dells,<br>Finds entrance through yon arch, where way<br>Lies open on the sabbath-day;<br>Here walks amid the mournful waste<br>Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, <br>And floors encumbered with rich show<br>Of fret-work imagery laid low;<br>Paces softly, or makes halt,<br>By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault;<br>By plate of monumental brass<br>Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,<br>And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave:<br>But chiefly by that single grave,<br>That one sequestered hillock green,<br>The pensive visitant is seen. <br>There doth the gentle Creature lie<br>With those adversities unmoved;<br>Calm spectacle, by earth and sky<br>In their benignity approved!<br>And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile,<br>Subdued by outrage and decay,<br>Looks down upon her with a smile,<br>A gracious smile, that seems to say--<br>'Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,<br>But Daughter of the Eternal Prime!'</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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That touch each other to the quick--in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of.'

THOU Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory..."></div>
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