And glow of righteous indignation, Went with him from the doleful city. He fled-yet in his flight could hear The death-sound 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 sweet half-opened flower! For all-all dying in one hour!
Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
Should bear him to his sister dear With motion fleet as wingèd dove; Yea, like a heavenly messenger, An angel-guest, should he appear. Why comes he not?-for westward fast Along the plain of York he passed; The banner staff was in his hand, The imagery concealed from sight, And cross the expanse, in open flight; Reckless of what impels or leads, Unchecked he hurries on; nor heeds The sorrow of the villagers; From the triumphant cruelties Of vengeful military force, And punishment without remorse, Unchecked he journeys-under law Of inward occupation strong; And the first object which he saw, With conscious sight, as he swept along, It was the banner in his hand!- He felt and made a sudden stand.
He looked about like one betrayed: What hath he done-what promise made? O weak, weak moment-to what end Can such a vain oblation tend, And he the bearer? Can he go Carrying this instrument of woe, And find-find anywhere, a right To excuse him in his country's sight? No! will not all men deem the change
A downward course, perverse and strange? Here is it, but how-when-must she, The unoffending Emily,
Again this piteous object see?
Such conflict long did he maintain Within himself, and found no rest; Calm liberty he could not gain; And yet the service was unblest. His own life into danger brought By this sad burden-even that thought Raised self-suspicion which was strong, Swaying the brave man to his wrong: And how, unless it were the sense
Of all-disposing Providence, Its will intelligibly shown, Finds he the banner in his hand, Without a thought to such intent, Or conscious effort of his own- And no obstruction to prevent His father's wish and last command? And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh, Remembering his own prophecy Of utter desolation, made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade: He sighed, submitting to the power, The might of that prophetic hour. "No choice is left; the deed is mine- Dead are they, dead !—and I will go, And, for their sakes, come weal or woe, Will lay the relic on the shrine."
So forward with a steady will He went, and traversed plain and hill; And up the vale of Wharf his way Pursued; and, on the second day, He reached a summit whence his eyes Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. There Francis for a moment's space Made halt-but hark! a noise behind Of horsemen at an eager pace,
He heard, and with misgiving mind. 'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the band: They come, by cruel Sussex sent; Who, when the Nortons from the hand Of death had drunk their punishment, Bethought him, angry and ashamed, How Francis had the banner claimed, And with that charge had disappeared; By all the standers-by revered.
His whole bold carriage (which had quelled Thus far the opposer, and repelled
All censure,-enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven
Against that overcoming light)
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given, That to what place soever fled,
He should be seized, alive or dead.
The troop of horse have gained the height Where Francis stood in open sight. They hem him round-"Behold the proof! Behold the ensign in his hand! He did not arm, he walked aloof-For why?-to save his father's land; Worst traitor of them all is he, A traitor dark and cowardly!"
"I am no traitor!" Francis said, "Though this unhappy freight I bear:
It weakens me, my heart hath bled Till it is weak-but you beware, Nor do a suffering spirit wrong, Whose self-reproaches are too strong!" At this, he from the beaten road Retreated, towards a brake of thorn, Which like a place of vantage showed; And there stood bravely, though forlorn. In self-defence, with a warrior's brow, He stood, nor weaponless was now; He from a soldier's hand had snatched A spear, and with his eyes he watched Their motions, turning round and round: His weaker hand the banner held; And straight, by savage zeal impelled, Forth rushed a pikeman, as if he, Not without harsh indignity, Would seize the same; instinctively, To smite the offender, with his lance Did Francis from the brake advance; But, from behind, a treacherous wound Unfeeling, brought him to the ground,- A mortal stroke:-oh, grief to tell! Thus, thus the noble Francis fell: There did he lie, of breath forsaken; The banner from his grasp was taken, And borne exultingly away;
And the body was left on the ground where it lay.
Two days, as many nights, he slept
Alone, unnoticed, and unwept; For at that time distress and fear Possessed the country far and near; The third day, one who chanced to pass Beheld him stretched upon the grass. A gentle forester was he,
And of the Norton tenantry; And he had heard that by a train Of horsemen Francis had been slain. Much was he troubled-for the man Hath recognised his pallid face; And to the nearest huts he ran, And called the people to the place. "How desolate is Rylstone Hall!" Such was the instant thought of all; And if the lonely lady there
Should be, this sight she cannot bear ! Such thought the forester expressed, And all were swayed, and deemed it best That, if the priest should yield assent And join himself to their intent, Then they, for Christian pity's sake, In holy ground a grave would make; That straightway buried he should be In the churchyard of the Priory.
Apart, some little space, was made The grave where Francis must be laid. In no confusion or neglect
This did they, but in pure respect That he was born of gentle blood, And that there was no neighbourhood Of kindred for him in that ground: So to the church-yard they are bound, Bearing the body on a bier
In decency and humble cheer; And psalms are sung with holy sound.
But Emily had raised her head, And is again disquieted;
She must behold!-so many gone, Where is the solitary one?
And forth from Rylston Hall stepped she,—
To seek her brother forth she went And tremblingly her course she bent Tow'rds Bolton's ruined Priory. She comes, and in the vale hath heard The funeral dirge-she sees the knot Of people sees them in one spot- And darting like a wounded bird, She reached the grave, and with her breast Upon the ground, received the rest,- The consummation, the whole ruth And sorrow of this final truth!
THOU Spirit! whose angelic hand Was to the harp a strong command, Called the submissive strings to wake In glory for this maiden's sake, Say, spirit! whither hath she fled To hide her poor afflicted head? What mighty forest in its gloom Enfolds her?-Is a rifted tomb Within the wilderness her seat?' Some island which the wild waves beat, Is that the sufferer's last retreat? Or some aspiring rock that shrouds Its perilous front in mists and clouds? High climbing rock-deep sunless dale- Sea-desert-what do these avail? Oh take her anguish and her fears Into a calm recess of years!
'Tis done; despoil and desolation O'er Rylstone's fair domain hath blown; The walks and pools neglect hath sown With weeds, the bowers are overthrown,
Or have given way to slow mutation, While, in their ancient habitation The Norton name hath been unknown: The lordly mansion of its pride
Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide Through park and field, a perishing That mocks the gladness of the spring! And, with this silent gloom agreeing, There is a joyless human being, Of aspect such as if the waste Were under her dominion placed : Upon a primrose bank, her throne Of quietness, she sits alone; There seated, may this maid be seen, Among the ruins of a wood,
Erewhile a covert bright and green, And where full many a brave tree stood, That used to spread its boughs, and ring With the sweet birds' carolling. Behold her, like a virgin queen, Neglecting in imperial state These outward images of fate,
And carrying inward a serene
And perfect sway, through many a thought
Of chance and change that hath been brought To the subjection of a holy,
Though stern and rigorous, melancholy ! The like authority, with grace
Of awfulness, is in her face,—
There hath she fixed it; yet it seems
To o'ershadow by no native right
That face, which cannot lose the gleams- Lose utterly-the tender gleams Of gentleness, and meek delight, And loving-kindness ever bright. Such is her sovereign mien; her dress (A vest, with woollen cincture tied, A hood of mountain wool undyed) Is homely-fashioned to express A wandering pilgrim's humbleness.
And she hath wandered, long and far, Beneath the light of sun and star; Hath roamed in trouble and in grief, Driven forward like a withered leaf, Yea like a ship at random blown To distant places and unknown. But now she dares to seek a haven Among her native wilds of Craven ; Hath seen again her father's roof, And put her fortitude to proof. The mighty sorrow has been borne, And she is thoroughly forlorn : Her soul doth in itself stand fast, Sustained by memory of the past
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