XXXIII.

CONCLUSION.

But here no cannon thunders to the gale;
Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast
A crimson splendour: lowly is the mast
That rises here, and humbly spread, the sail;
While, less disturbed than in the narrow Vale
Through which with strange vicissitudes he passed,
The wanderer seeks that receptacle vast

Where all his unambitious functions fail.

And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream! be free-
The sweets of earth contentedly resigned,
And each tumultuous working left behind
At seemly distance-to advance like Thee;
Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind
And soul, to mingle with Eternity!

XXXIV.

AFTER-THOUGHT.

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away.-Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide ;

Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide ;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish ;—be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour ;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower.
We feel that we are greater than we know.

THE

WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE;

OR,

THE FATE OF THE NORTONS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

DURING the Summer of 1807, the Author visited, for the first time, the beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and the Poem of the WHITE DOE, founded upon a Tradition connected with that place, was composed at the close of the same year.

DEDICATION.

IN trellised shed with clustering roses gay,
And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,
When years of wedded life were as a day
Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
Did we together read in Spenser's Lay
How Una, sad of soul-in sad attire,

The gentle Una, of celestial birth,

To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.

Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,

And the tear precious in compassion shed

For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;

Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart

The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,—

And faithful, loyal in her innocence,

Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.