"They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beasts 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. THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. CANTO FIRST. FROM Bolton's old monastic tower Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, Path, or no path, what care they? And thus in joyous mood they hie What would they there? Full fifty years That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, Its courts are ravaged; but the tower That ancient voice which wont to call In covert like a little nest; 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 faith and hope are in their prime, A moment ends the fervent din, 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, Beneath the arch with ivy bound, Free entrance to the church-yard ground; And right across the verdant sod Towards the very house of God; 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 A glittering ship, that hath the plain Lie silent in your graves, ye dead! If I with this bright Creature go; What harmonious pensive changes Round and through this Pile of state, |