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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540192" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Sixth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHY comes not Francis?--From the doleful City<br>He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear<br>The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:<br>That sullen stroke pronounced farewell<br>To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!<br>To Ambrose that! and then a knell<br>For him, the sweet half-opened Flower! <br>For all--all dying in one hour!<br>--Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love<br>Should bear him to his Sister dear<br>With the fleet motion of a dove;<br>Yea, like a heavenly messenger<br>Of speediest wing, should he appear.<br>Why comes he not?--for westward fast<br>Along the plain of York he past;<br>Reckless of what impels or leads,<br>Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds <br>The sorrow, through the Villages,<br>Spread by triumphant cruelties<br>Of vengeful military force,<br>And punishment without remorse.<br>He marked not, heard not, as he fled<br>All but the suffering heart was dead<br>For him abandoned to blank awe,<br>To vacancy, and horror strong:<br>And the first object which he saw,<br>With conscious sight, as he swept along-- <br>It was the Banner in his hand!<br>He felt--and made a sudden stand.<br>He looked about like one betrayed:<br>What hath he done? what promise made?<br>Oh weak, weak moment! to what end<br>Can such a vain oblation tend,<br>And he the Bearer?--Can he go<br>Carrying this instrument of woe,<br>And find, find anywhere, a right<br>To excuse him in his Country's sight? <br>No; will not all men deem the change<br>A downward course, perverse and strange?<br>Here is it;--but how? when? must she,<br>The unoffending Emily,<br>Again this piteous object see?<br>Such conflict long did he maintain,<br>Nor liberty nor rest could gain:<br>His own life into danger brought<br>By this sad burden--even that thought,<br>Exciting self-suspicion strong <br>Swayed the brave man to his wrong.<br>And how--unless it were the sense<br>Of all-disposing Providence,<br>Its will unquestionably shown--<br>How has the Banner clung so fast<br>To a palsied, and unconscious hand;<br>Clung to the hand to which it passed<br>Without impediment? And why,<br>But that Heaven's purpose might be known,<br>Doth now no hindrance meet his eye, <br>No intervention, to withstand<br>Fulfilment of a Father's prayer<br>Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest<br>When all resentments were at rest,<br>And life in death laid the heart bare?--<br>Then, like a spectre sweeping by,<br>Rushed through his mind the prophecy<br>Of utter desolation made<br>To Emily in the yew-tree shade:<br>He sighed, submitting will and power <br>To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.<br>'No choice is left, the deed is mine--<br>Dead are they, dead!--and I will go,<br>And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,<br>Will lay the Relic on the shrine.'<br>So forward with a steady will<br>He went, and traversed plain and hill;<br>And up the vale of Wharf his way<br>Pursued;--and, at the dawn of day,<br>Attained a summit whence his eyes <br>Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.<br>There Francis for a moment's space<br>Made halt--but hark! a noise behind<br>Of horsemen at an eager pace!<br>He heard, and with misgiving mind.<br>--'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:<br>They come, by cruel Sussex sent;<br>Who, when the Nortons from the hand<br>Of death had drunk their punishment,<br>Bethought him, angry and ashamed, <br>How Francis, with the Banner claimed<br>As his own charge, had disappeared,<br>By all the standers-by revered.<br>His whole bold carriage (which had quelled<br>Thus far the Opposer, and repelled<br>All censure, enterprise so bright<br>That even bad men had vainly striven<br>Against that overcoming light)<br>Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,<br>That to what place soever fled <br>He should be seized, alive or dead.<br>The troop of horse have gained the height<br>Where Francis stood in open sight.<br>They hem him round--'Behold the proof,'<br>They cried, 'the Ensign in his hand!<br>'He' did not arm, he walked aloof!<br>For why?--to save his Father's land;--<br>Worst Traitor of them all is he,<br>A Traitor dark and cowardly!'<br>'I am no Traitor,' Francis said, <br>'Though this unhappy freight I bear;<br>And must not part with. But beware;--<br>Err not by hasty zeal misled,<br>Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,<br>Whose self-reproaches are too strong!'<br>At this he from the beaten road<br>Retreated towards a brake of thorn,<br>That like a place of vantage showed;<br>And there stood bravely, though forlorn.<br>In self-defence with warlike brow <br>He stood,--nor weaponless was now;<br>He from a Soldier's hand had snatched<br>A spear,--and, so protected, watched<br>The Assailants, turning round and round;<br>But from behind with treacherous wound<br>A Spearman brought him to the ground.<br>The guardian lance, as Francis fell,<br>Dropped from him; but his other hand<br>The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,<br>One, the most eager for the prize, <br>Rushed in; and--while, O grief to tell!<br>A glimmering sense still left, with eyes<br>Unclosed the noble Francis lay--<br>Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;<br>But not before the warm life-blood<br>Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,<br>The wounds the broidered Banner showed,<br>Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good!<br>Proudly the Horsemen bore away<br>The Standard; and where Francis lay <br>There was he left alone, unwept,<br>And for two days unnoticed slept.<br>For at that time bewildering fear<br>Possessed the country, far and near;<br>But, on the third day, passing by<br>One of the Norton Tenantry<br>Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man<br>Shrunk as he recognised the face,<br>And to the nearest homesteads ran<br>And called the people to the place. <br>--How desolate is Rylstone-hall!<br>This was the instant thought of all;<br>And if the lonely Lady there<br>Should be; to her they cannot bear<br>This weight of anguish and despair.<br>So, when upon sad thoughts had prest<br>Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best<br>That, if the Priest should yield assent<br>And no one hinder their intent,<br>Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, <br>In holy ground a grave would make;<br>And straightway buried he should be<br>In the Churchyard of the Priory.<br>Apart, some little space, was made<br>The grave where Francis must be laid.<br>In no confusion or neglect<br>This did they,--but in pure respect<br>That he was born of gentle blood;<br>And that there was no neighbourhood<br>Of kindred for him in that ground: <br>So to the Churchyard they are bound,<br>Bearing the body on a bier;<br>And psalms they sing--a holy sound<br>That hill and vale with sadness hear.<br>But Emily hath raised her head,<br>And is again disquieted;<br>She must behold!--so many gone,<br>Where is the solitary One?<br>And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,--<br>To seek her Brother forth she went, <br>And tremblingly her course she bent<br>Toward Bolton's ruined Priory.<br>She comes, and in the vale hath heard<br>The funeral dirge;--she sees the knot<br>Of people, sees them in one spot--<br>And darting like a wounded bird<br>She reached the grave, and with her breast<br>Upon the ground received the rest,--<br>The consummation, the whole ruth<br>And sorrow of this final truth!</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540192" data-title="The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Sixth de William Wordsworth" data-description="WHY comes not Francis?--From the doleful City
He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!
To Ambrose that! and then a knell
For him, the swe..."></div>
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