So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive

.

Upon seeing a Colored Drawing of the Bird of Paradise

in an Album

819

820

Blest Statesman he, whose Mind's unselfish will

In Allusion to various recent Histories and Notices of the

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Men of the Western World! in Fate's dark book

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To the Pennsylvanians .

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At Bologna, in Remembrance of the late Insurrections,

Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle (on the Road

from the South).

Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die

Is Death, when evil against good has fought.

Not to the object specially designed

Ye brood of conscience, Spectres! that frequent

Before the world had passed her time of youth

Fit retribution, by the moral code

Though to give timely warning and deter

Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine

Ah! think how one compelled for life to abide.

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THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE;

OR,

THE FATE OF THE NORTONS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

DURING the Summer of 1807, I 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.

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;

Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught;

Till, in the bosom of our rustic Cell,

We by a lamentable change were taught

That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide":
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

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
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit,
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

It soothed us, it beguiled us, then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near
The
pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
High over hill and low adown the dell

Again we wandered, willing to partake

All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake.

Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please,
Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,
Is tempered and allayed by sympathies

Aloft ascending, and descending deep,

Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees
Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep
Of the sharp winds;

fair Creatures!-to whom Heaven A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
Of female patience winning firm repose;
And, of the recompense that conscience seeks,
A bright, encouraging example shows;

Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks,
Needful amid life's ordinary woes;-

Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless

A happy hour with holier happiness.

He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
O that my mind were equal to fulfil

The comprehensive mandate which they give,-
Vain aspiration of an earnest will!

Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
Beloved Wife! such solace to impart

As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND,
April 20, 1815.

'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy

We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And has the nature of infinity.

Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
And irremovable) gracious openings lie,

By which the soul-with patient steps of thought

Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer

May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds

Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent

Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."