Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Which way soe’er our fate incline,

  These will be faithful to the end;

  They are my all”—voice failed him here—

  “My all save one, a Daughter dear!

  Whom I have left, Love’s mildest birth,

  The meekest Child on this blessed earth.

  I had—but these are by my side,

  These Eight, and this is a day of pride! 620

  The time is ripe. With festive din

  Lo! how the people are flocking in,—

  Like hungry fowl to the feeder’s hand

  When snow lies heavy upon the land.”

  He spake bare truth; for far and near

  From every side came noisy swarms

  Of Peasants in their homely gear;

  And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came

  Grave Gentry of estate and name,

  And Captains known for worth in arms 630

  And prayed the Earls in self-defence

  To rise, and prove their innocence.—

  “Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might

  For holy Church, and the People’s right!”

  The Norton fixed, at this demand,

  His eye upon Northumberland,

  And said; “The Minds of Men will own

  No loyal rest while England’s Crown

  Remains without an Heir, the bait

  Of strife and factions desperate; 640

  Who, paying deadly hate in kind

  Through all things else, in this can find

  A mutual hope, a common mind;

  And plot, and pant to overwhelm

  All ancient honour in the realm.

  —Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins

  Our noblest blood is given in trust,

  To you a suffering State complains,

  And ye must raise her from the dust.

  With wishes of still bolder scope 650

  On you we look, with dearest hope;

  Even for our Altars—for the prize,

  In Heaven, of life that never dies;

  For the old and holy Church we mourn,

  And must in joy to her return.

  Behold!”—and from his Son whose stand

  Was on his right, from that guardian hand

  He took the Banner, and unfurled

  The precious folds—”behold,” said he,

  “The ransom of a sinful world; 660

  Let this your preservation be;

  The wounds of hands and feet and side,

  And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died.

  —This bring I from an ancient hearth,

  These Records wrought in pledge of love

  By hands of no ignoble birth,

  A Maid o’er whom the blessed Dove

  Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood

  While she the holy work pursued.”

  “Uplift the Standard!” was the cry 670

  From all the listeners that stood round,

  “Plant it,—by this we live or die.”

  The Norton ceased not for that sound,

  But said; “The prayer which ye have heard,

  Much-injured Earls! by these preferred,

  Is offered to the Saints, the sigh

  Of tens of thousands, secretly.”

  “Uplift it!” cried once more the Band,

  And then a thoughtful pause ensued:

  “Uplift it!” said Northumberland—680

  Whereat, from all the multitude

  Who saw the Banner reared on high

  In all its dread emblazonry,

  A voice of uttermost joy brake out:

  The transport was rolled down the river of Were,

  And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear,

  And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by the shout!

  Now was the North in arms:—they shine

  In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne,

  At Percy’s voice: and Neville sees 690

  His Followers gathering in from Tees,

  From Were, and all the little rills

  Concealed among the forked hills—

  Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all

  Of Neville, at their Master’s call

  Had sate together in Raby Hall!

  Such strength that Earldom held of yore;

  Nor wanted at this time rich store

  Of well-appointed chivalry.

  —Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, 700

  And greet the old paternal shield,

  They heard the summons;—and, furthermore,

  Horsemen and Foot of each degree,

  Unbound by pledge of fealty,

  Appeared, with free and open hate

  Of novelties in Church and State;

  Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire;

  And Romish priest, in priest’s attire.

  And thus, in arms, a zealous Band

  Proceeding under joint command, 710

  To Durham first their course they bear;

  And in Saint Cuthbert’s ancient seat

  Sang mass,—and tore the book of prayer,—

  And trod the bible beneath their feet.

  Thence marching southward smooth and free

  “They mustered their host at Wetherby,

  Full sixteen thousand fair to see,”

  The Choicest Warriors of the North!

  But none for beauty and for worth

  Like those eight Sons—who, in a ring, 720

  (Ripe men, or blooming in life’s spring)

  Each with a lance, erect and tall,

  A falchion, and a buckler small,

  Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,

  To guard the Standard which he bore.

  On foot they girt their Father round;

  And so will keep the appointed ground

  Where’er their march: no steed will he

  Henceforth bestride;—triumphantly,

  He stands upon the grassy sod, 730

  Trusting himself to the earth, and God.

  Rare sight to embolden and inspire!

  Proud was the field of Sons and Sire;

  Of him the most; and, sooth to say,

  No shape of man in all the array

  So graced the sunshine of that day.

  The monumental pomp of age

  Was with this goodly Personage;

  A stature undepressed in size,

  Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, 740

  In open victory o’er the weight

  Of seventy years, to loftier height;

  Magnific limbs of withered state;

  A face to fear and venerate;

  Eyes dark and strong; and on his head

  Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread,

  Which a brown morion half-concealed,

  Light as a hunter’s of the field;

  And thus, with girdle round his waist,

  Whereon the Banner-staff might rest 750

  At need, he stood, advancing high

  The glittering, floating Pageantry.

  Who sees him?—thousands see, and One

  With unparticipated gaze;

  Who, ‘mong those thousands, friend hath none,

  And treads in solitary ways.

  He, following wheresoe’er he might,

  Hath watched the Banner from afar,

  As shepherds watch a lonely star,

  Or mariners the distant light 760

  That guides them through a stormy night.

  And now, upon a chosen plot

  Of rising ground, yon heathy spot!

  He takes alone his far-off stand,

  With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand.

  Bold is his aspect; but his eye

  Is pregnant with anxiety,

  While, like a tutelary Power,

  He there stands fixed from hour to hour:

  Yet sometimes in more humble guise, 770

  Upon the turf-clad height he lies

  Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask<
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  In sunshine were his only task,

  Or by his mantle’s help to find

  A shelter from the nipping wind:

  And thus, with short oblivion blest,

  His weary spirits gather rest.

  Again he lifts his eyes; and lo!

  The pageant glancing to and fro;

  And hope is wakened by the sight, 780

  He thence may learn, ere fall of night,

  Which way the tide is doomed to flow.

  To London were the Chieftains bent;

  But what avails the bold intent?

  A Royal army is gone forth

  To quell the RISING OF THE NORTH;

  They march with Dudley at their head,

  And, in seven days’ space, will to York be led!—

  Can such a mighty Host be raised

  Thus suddenly, and brought so near? 790

  The Earls upon each other gazed,

  And Neville’s cheek grew pale with fear;

  For, with a high and valiant name,

  He bore a heart of timid frame;

  And bold if both had been, yet they

  “Against so many may not stay.”

  Back therefore will they hie to seize

  A strong Hold on the banks of Tees

  There wait a favourable hour,

  Until Lord Dacre with his power 800

  From Naworth come; and Howard’s aid

  Be with them openly displayed.

  While through the Host, from man to man,

  A rumour of this purpose ran,

  The Standard trusting to the care

  Of him who heretofore did bear

  That charge, impatient Norton sought

  The Chieftains to unfold his thought,

  And thus abruptly spake;—”We yield

  (And can it be?) an unfought field!— 810

  How oft has strength, the strength of heaven,

  To few triumphantly been given!

  Still do our very children boast

  Of mitred Thurston—what a Host

  He conquered!—Saw we not the Plain

  (And flying shall behold again)

  Where faith was proved?—while to battle moved

  The Standard, on the Sacred Wain

  That bore it, compassed round by a bold

  Fraternity of Barons old; 820

  And with those grey-haired champions stood,

  Under the saintly ensigns three,

  The infant Heir of Mowbray’s blood—

  All confident of victory!—

  Shall Percy blush, then, for his name?

  Must Westmoreland be asked with shame

  Whose were the numbers, where the loss,

  In that other day of Neville’s Cross?

  When the Prior of Durham with holy hand

  Raised, as the Vision gave command, 830

  Saint Cuthbert’s Relic—far and near

  Kenned on the point of a lofty spear;

  While the Monks prayed in Maiden’s Bower

  To God descending in his power.

  Less would not at our need be due

  To us, who war against the Untrue;—

  The delegates of Heaven we rise,

  Convoked the impious to chastise:

  We, we, the sanctities of old

  Would re-establish and uphold:840

  Be warned”—His zeal the Chiefs confounded,

  But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:

  Back through the melancholy Host

  Went Norton, and resumed his post.

  Alas! thought he, and have I borne

  This Banner raised with joyful pride,

  This hope of all posterity,

  By those dread symbols sanctified;

  Thus to become at once the scorn

  Of babbling winds as they go by, 850

  A spot of shame to the sun’s bright eye,

  To the light clouds a mockery!

  —”Even these poor eight of mine would stem—”

  Half to himself, and half to them

  He spake—”would stem, or quell, a force

  Ten times their number, man and horse:

  This by their own unaided might,

  Without their father in their sight,

  Without the Cause for which they fight;

  A Cause, which on a needful day 860

  Would breed us thousands brave as they.”

  —So speaking, he his reverend head

  Raised towards that Imagery once more:

  But the familiar prospect shed

  Despondency unfelt before:

  A shock of intimations vain,

  Dismay, and superstitious pain,

  Fell on him, with the sudden thought

  Of her by whom the work was wrought:—

  Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 870

  With love divine and gentle light?

  She would not, could not, disobey,

  But her Faith leaned another way.

  Ill tears she wept; I saw them fall,

  I overheard her as she spake

  Sad words to that mute Animal,

  The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake;

  She steeped, but not for Jesu’s sake,

  This Cross in tears: by her, and One

  Unworthier far we are undone—880

  Her recreant Brother—he prevailed

  Over that tender Spirit—assailed

  Too oft, alas! by her whose head

  In the cold grave hath long been laid:

  She first, in reason’s dawn beguiled

  Her docile, unsuspecting Child:

  Far back—far back my mind must go

  To reach the well-spring of this woe!

  While thus he brooded, music sweet

  Of border tunes was played to cheer 890

  The footsteps of a quick retreat;

  But Norton lingered in the rear,

  Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last

  From his distracted brain was cast,

  Before his Father, Francis stood,

  And spake in firm and earnest mood.

  “Though here I bend a suppliant knee

  In reverence, and unarmed, I bear

  In your indignant thoughts my share;

  Am grieved this backward march to see 900

  So careless and disorderly.

  I scorn your Chiefs—men who would lead,

  And yet want courage at their need:

  Then look at them with open eyes!

  Deserve they further sacrifice?—

  If—when they shrink, nor dare oppose

  In open field their gathering foes,

  (And fast, from this decisive day,

  Yon multitude must melt away;)

  If now I ask a grace not claimed 910

  While ground was left for hope; unblamed

  Be an endeavour that can do

  No injury to them or you.

  My Father! I would help to find

  A place of shelter, till the rage

  Of cruel men do like the wind

  Exhaust itself and sink to rest;

  Be Brother now to Brother joined!

  Admit me in the equipage

  Of your misfortunes, that at least, 920

  Whatever fate remain behind,

  I may bear witness in my breast

  To your nobility of mind!”

  “Thou Enemy, my bane and blight!

  Oh! bold to fight the Coward’s fight

  Against all good”—but why declare,

  At length, the issue of a prayer

  Which love had prompted, yielding scope

  Too free to one bright moment’s hope?

  Suffice it that the Son, who strove 930

  With fruitless effort to allay

  That passion, prudently gave way;

  Nor did he turn aside to prove

  His Brothers’ wisdom or their love—

  But calmly from the spot withdrew;

  His best endeavours t
o renew,

  Should e’er a kindlier time ensue.

  CANTO FOURTH

  ‘Tis night: in silence looking down,

  The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees

  A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 940

  And Castle, like a stately crown

  On the steep rocks of winding Tees;—

  And southward far, with moor between,

  Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,

  The bright Moon sees that valley small

  Where Rylstone’s old sequestered Hall

  A venerable image yields

  Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;

  While from one pillared chimney breathes

  The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 950

  —The courts are hushed;—for timely sleep

  The greyhounds to their kennel creep;

  The peacock in the broad ash tree

  Aloft is roosted for the night,

  He who in proud prosperity

  Of colours manifold and bright

  Walked round, affronting the daylight;

  And higher still, above the bower

  Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower

  The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 960

  With glittering finger points at nine.

  Ah! who could think that sadness here

  Hath any sway? or pain, or fear?

  A soft and lulling sound is heard

  Of streams inaudible by day;

  The garden pool’s dark surface, stirred

  By the night insects in their play,

  Breaks into dimples small and bright;

  A thousand, thousand rings of light

  That shape themselves and disappear 970

  Almost as soon as seen:—and lo!

  Not distant far, the milk-white Doe—

  The same who quietly was feeding

  On the green herb, and nothing heeding,

  When Francis, uttering to the Maid

  His last words in the yew-tree shade,

  Involved whate’er by love was brought

  Out of his heart, or crossed his thought,

  Or chance presented to his eye,

  In one sad sweep of destiny—980

  The same fair Creature, who hath found

  Her way into forbidden ground;

  Where now—within this spacious plot

  For pleasure made, a goodly spot,

  With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades

  Of trellis-work in long arcades,

  And cirque and crescent framed by wall

  Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,

  Converging walks, and fountains gay,

  And terraces in trim array—990

  Beneath yon cypress spiring high,

  With pine and cedar spreading wide

  Their darksome boughs on either side,

  In open moonlight doth she lie;

  Happy as others of her kind,

  That, far from human neighbourhood,

  Range unrestricted as the wind,

  Through park, or chase, or savage wood.

  But see the consecrated Maid