Now a step or two her way

Is through space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light
Brightens her that was so bright;
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath :

Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread
Of the elder's bushy head;

Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,

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, re-appearing, she no less
To the open day gives blessedness.
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,

Comes she with a votary's task,

Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense
Of sorrow, or of reverence?

Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?

For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where Man abode;
For old magnificence undone ;
Or for the gentler work begun
By Nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing,—
For altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament,

--

Or dormitory's length laid bare,
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;
And sapling ash, whose place of birth
Is that lordly chamber's hearth?

- 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,

Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast:

Methinks she passeth by the sight,
As a common creature might:

If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere.
-But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves with

Nor

pace

how light!

spares to stoop her head, and taste

The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And thus she fares, until at last
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave

In quietness she lays her down;
Gently as a weary wave

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,

Against an anchored vessel's side;

Even so, without distress, doth she

Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the river in its flowing
Can there be a softer sound?
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant Creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes.

When now again the people rear

A voice of praise, with awful cheer!
It is the last, the parting song;

And from the temple forth they throng-
And quickly spread themselves abroad-
While each pursues his several road.
But some, a variegated band,

Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung,

Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,

Towards the spot, where, full in view,
The lovely Doe of whitest hue,

Her sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound;

Which two spears' length of level ground Did from all other graves divide:

As if in some respect of pride;

Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood;
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.

"Look, there she is, my Child! draw near; She fears not, wherefore should we fear? She means no harm;" - but still the Boy, To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled and blushed for joy, A shame-faced blush of glowing red! Again the Mother whispered low, "Now you have seen the famous Doe; From Rylstone she hath found her way Over the hills this sabbath-day;

Her work, whate'er it be, is done,

And she will depart when we are gone;
Thus doth she keep from year to year,
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."

This whisper soft repeats what he

Had known from early infancy.

Bright is the Creature

as in dreams

The Boy had seen her

yea more bright;

But is she truly what she seems ?

He asks with insecure delight,

Asks of himself. and doubts and still

The doubt returns against his will:
Though he, and all the standers-by,
Could tell a tragic history