THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 66 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. CANTO FIRST. 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 moment ends the fervent din, Recites the holy liturgy, The only voice which you can hear - 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, Free entrance to the churchyard ground, - 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 A glittering ship, that hath the plain Lie silent in your graves, ye dead! 'Tis a work for Sabbath hours From the bowers of earth below; A pledge of grace from purest heaven. What harmonious pensive changes Round and through this Pile of state Now a step or two her way 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 But say, among these holy places, Can she be grieved for choir or shrine, For what survives of house where God - 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, As a common creature might: |