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Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart,
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, -
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.
Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Till, in the bosom of our rustic Cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide":
For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,
For us the voice of melody was mute.
-But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow
It soothed us, it beguiled us, then, to hear
All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake.
Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please,
Aloft ascending, and descending deep,
Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees
Of the sharp winds; -fair Creatures!-to whom Heaven
This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks,
Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless
A happy hour with holier happiness.
He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
The comprehensive mandate which they give,-
Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
"Action is transitory,—a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:
Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
By which the soul-with patient steps of thought
Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.
"They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a Man, who to him is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature than his own could never attain. So Man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain." LORD BACON.
FROM Bolton's old monastic tower
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
What would they there? full fifty years That sumptuous Pile, with all its Peers, Too harshly hath been doomed to taste The bitterness of wrong and waste: Its courts are ravaged; but the tower Is standing with a voice of power, That ancient voice which wont to call To mass or some high festival; And in the shattered fabric's heart Remaineth one protected part; A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest; And thither young and old repair, This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer.
Fast the churchyard fills ; anon,
a pure faith the vernal prime, -
A moment ends the fervent din,
Recites the holy liturgy,
The only voice which you can hear
Is the river murmuring near.
When soft! the dusky trees between, And down the path through the open green, Where is no living thing to be seen, And through yon gateway, where is found, Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
Free entrance to the churchyard ground, Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary Doe !
White she is as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver Moon
When out of sight the clouds are driven
Or like a ship some gentle day
Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
"Tis a work for Sabbath hours