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This was for you a precious greeting,-
For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting.
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe
Can she depart? can she forego
The lady, once her playful peer,
And now her sainted mistress dear?
And will not Emily receive
This lovely chronicler of things
Long past, delights and sorrowings?
Lone sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face,
And take this gift of Heaven with grace?

That day, the first of a re-union
Which was to teem with high communion,
That day of balmy April weather,
They tarried in the wood together.

And when, ere fall of evening-dew

She from this sylvan haunt withdrew,

The White Doe tracked with faithful pace

The lady to her dwelling-place;

That nook where, on paternal ground,

A habitation she had found,

The master of whose humble board

Once owned her father for his lord;

A hut, by tufted trees defended,

Where Rylstone Brook with Wharf is blended.

When Emily by morning light

Went forth, the Doe was there in sight.
She shrunk-with one frail shock of pain,
Received and followed by a prayer,

Did she behold-saw once again;

Shun will she not, she feels, will bear ;

But wheresoever she looked round
All now was trouble-haunted ground.
So doth the sufferer deem it good
Even once again this neighbourhood
To leave.-Unwooed, yet unforbidden,
The White Doe followed up the vale,
Up to another cottage-hidden
In the deep fork of Amerdale;
And there may Emily restore
Herself, in spots unseen before.-
Why tell of mossy rock, or tree,
By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,
Haunts of a strengthening amity

That calmed her, cheered, and fortified?
For she hath ventured now to read

Of time, and place, and thought, and deed,
Endless history that lies

In her silent follower's eyes!

Who with a power like human reason

Discerns the favourable season,

Skilled to approach or to retire,—

From looks conceiving her desire,
From look, deportment, voice or mien,
That vary to the heart within.
If she too passionately writhed
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed,
Walked quick or slowly, every mood
In its degree was understood;
Then well may their accord be true,
And kindly intercourse ensue.
-Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing
When she by sudden glimpse espied
The White Doe on the mountain browsing,
Or in the meadow wandered wide!

How pleased, when down the straggler sank
Beside her, on some sunny bank!

How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed,
They like a nested pair reposed!
Fair vision! when it crossed the maid
Within some rocky cavern laid,
The dark cave's portal gliding by,
White as the whitest cloud on high,
Floating through the azure sky.
-What now is left for pain or fear?
That presence, dearer and more dear
Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,

While they side by side were straying,

And the shepherd's pipe was playing;
And with a deeper peace endued
T'he hour of moonlight solitude.

With her companion, in such frame
Of mind, to Rylstone back she came,-
And, wandering through the wasted groves,
Received the memory of old loves,

Undisturbed and undistrest,

Into a soul which now was blest
With a soft spring-day of holy,
Mild, delicious melancholy:

Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,
But by tender fancies brightened.

When the bells of Rylstone played
Their Sabbath music-"God us ayde!"
That was the sound they seemed to speak;
Inscriptive legend, which I ween
May on those holy bells be seen,

That legend and her grandsire's name;
And oftentimes the lady meek

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While she sat listening in the shade,
With vocal music, "God us ayde!"
And all the hills were glad to bear
Their part in this effectual prayer.

Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power;
But with the White Doe at her side
Up doth she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence looks round her far and wide.
Her fate there measures,-all is stilled,--
The feeble hath subdued her heart;
Behold the prophecy fulfilled,

Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!

But here her brother's words have failed,--
Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
That she, of him and all bereft,
Hath yet this faithful partner left,-
This single creature that disproves
His words, remains for her, and loves.
If tears are shed, they do not fall
For loss of him, for one or all;
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;
A few tears down her cheek descend
For this her last and living friend.

Bless, tender hearts, their mutual lot,
And bless for both this savage spot!
Which Emily doth sacred hold
For reasons dear and manifold-
Here hath she, here before her sight,
Close to the summit of this height.
The grassy rock-encircled pound
In which the creature first was found.

So beautiful the spotless thrall,

(A lovely youngling white as foam,)

That it was brought to Rylstone Hall;

Her youngest brother led it home,

The youngest, then a lusty boy,

Brought home the prize-and with what joy!

But most to Bolton's sacred pile, On favouring nights, she loved to go:

There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
Attended by the soft-paced Doe;

Nor did she fear in the still moonshine
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;
Nor on the lonely turf that showed

Where Francis slept in his last abode.

For that she came; there oft and long
She sat in meditation strong:

And, when she from the abyss returned
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;
Was happy that she lived to greet

Her mute companion as it lay

In love and pity at her feet;

How happy in her turn to meet
That recognition! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance ;-
Communication, like the ray

Of a new morning, to the nature
And prospects of the inferior creature!

A mortal song we frame, by dower
Encouraged of celestial power;
Power which the viewless spirit shed

By whom we were first visited;

Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,

When, left in solitude, erewhile

We stood before this ruined pile,

And, quitting unsubstantial dreams,

Sang in this presence kindred themes;

Distress and desolation spread

Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,-
Dead-but to live again on earth,

A second and yet nobler birth;
Dire overthrow, and yet how high
The re-ascent in sanctity!
From fair to fairer; day by day

A more divine and loftier way!

Even such this blessed pilgrim trod,

By sorrow lifted tow'rds her God;

Uplifted to the purest sky

Of undisturbed mortality.

Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend

A dear look to her lowly friend,

There stopped ;-her thirst was satisfied

With what this innocent spring supplied

Her sanction inwardly she bore,

And stood apart from human cares:
But to the world returned no more,

Although with no unwilling mind
Help did she give at need, and joined
The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers.
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied
To earth, she was set free, and died.
Thy soul, exalted Emily,

Maid of the blasted family,

Rose to the God from whom it came!
-In Rylstone church her mortal frame
Was buried by her mother's side.

Most glorious sunset!—and a ray
Survives-the twilight of this day;
In that fair creature whom the fields
Support, and whom the forest shields;
Who, having filled a holy place,
Partakes in her degree heaven's grace;
And bears a memory and a mind

Raised far above the law of kind;
Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
Which her dear mistress once held dear:
Loves most what Emily loved most-
The enclosure of this churchyard ground;
Here wanders like a gliding ghost,
And every Sabbath here is found;
Comes with the people when the bells
Are heard among the moorland dells,
Finds entrance through yon arch, where way
Lies open on the Sabbath-day;

Here walks amid the mournful waste
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced,

And floors encumbered with rich show

Of fret-work imagery laid low;
Paces softly, or makes halt,

By fractured cell, or tomb, or vauit,
By plate of monumental brass
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
And sculptured forms of warriors brave;
But chiefly by that single grave,
That one sequestered hillock green,
The pensive visitant is seen.

There doth the gentle creature lie
With those adversities unmoved;
Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved!
And aye, methinks, this hoary pile,
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile, that seems to say,
"Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,
But Daughter of the Eternal Prime!

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