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 church-yard fills ;-anon
Look again, and they all are gone;
The cluster round the porch, and the folk
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak!
And scarcely have they disappeared
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:-
With one consent the people rejoice,
Filling the church with a lofty voice!
They sing a service which they feel:
For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal;
Of a pure faith the vernal prime-
In great Eliza's golden time.

A moment ends the fervent din,
And all is hushed, without and within;
For though the priest, more tranquilly,
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 church-yard 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
And she is left alone in heaven;

Or like a ship some gentle day
In sunshine sailing far away,

A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain.

Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed!
Ye living, tend your holy cares;
Ye multitude, pursue your prayers;
And blame not me if my heart and sight
Are occupied with one delight!
'Tis a work for sabbath hours
If I with this bright Creature go:
Whether she be of forest bowers,
From the bowers of earth below;
Or a Spirit for one day given,
A pledge of grace from purest heaven.
What harmonious pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges

;

Round and through this Pile of state
Overthrown and desolate!

Now a step or two her way
Leads through space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light
Brightens her that was so bright;
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she
passes underneath:

Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,-
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell,
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread
Of the elder's bushy head;
Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,

And where no flower hath leave to dwell.
The presence of this wandering Doe
Fills many a damp obscure recess

With lustre of a saintly show;

And, reappearing, she no less

Sheds on the flowers that round her blow

A more than sunny liveliness.

But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense
Of sorrow, or of reverence?

Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?

For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where Man abode;
For old magnificence undone;
Or for the gentler work begun
By Nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing?
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth
That to the sapling ash gives birth;
For dormitory's length laid bare
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;

Or altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament?
-She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;
As little she regards the sight
As a common creature might:
If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere.
-But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves-with pace how light!
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And thus she fares, until at last
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave

In quietness she lays her down;

Gentle as a weary wave

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,

Against an anchored vessel's side;

Even so, without distress, doth she

Lie down in peace, and lovingly.
The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the crystal stream now flowing
With its softest summer sound:
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant Creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes.

VOL. III.

T

-But now again the people raise
With awful cheer a voice of praise;
It is the last, the parting song;

And from the temple forth they throng,
And quickly spread themselves abroad,
While each pursues his several road.
But some-a variegated band
Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung—
With mute obeisance gladly paid

Turn towards the spot, where, full in view,
The white Doe, to her service true,
Her sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound;

Which two spears' length of level ground

Did from all other graves divide:

As if in some respect of pride;
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood;
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.

Look, there she is, my Child! draw near; She fears not, wherefore should we fear? She means no harm;"—but still the Boy, To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, A shame-faced blush of glowing red! Again the Mother whispered low, "Now you have seen the famous Doe; From Rylstone she hath found her way Over the hills this sabbath day;