WHY comes not Francis?–From the doleful City
He fled,–and, in his flight, could hear
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!
To Ambrose that! and then a knell
For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!
For all–all dying in one hour!
–Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
Should bear him to his Sister dear
With the fleet motion of a dove;
Yea, like a heavenly messenger
Of speediest wing, should he appear.
Why comes he not?–for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past;
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;–nor heeds
The sorrow, through the Villages,
Spread by triumphant cruelties
Of vengeful military force,
And punishment without remorse.
He marked not, heard not, as he fled
All but the suffering heart was dead
For him abandoned to blank awe,
To vacancy, and horror strong:
And the first object which he saw,
With conscious sight, as he swept along–
It was the Banner in his hand!
He felt–and made a sudden stand.
He looked about like one betrayed:
What hath he done? what promise made?
Oh weak, weak moment! to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend,
And he the Bearer?–Can he go
Carrying this instrument of woe,
And find, find anywhere, a right
To excuse him in his Country’s sight?
No; will not all men deem the change
A downward course, perverse and strange?
Here is it;–but how? when? must she,
The unoffending Emily,
Again this piteous object see?
Such conflict long did he maintain,
Nor liberty nor rest could gain:
His own life into danger brought
By this sad burden–even that thought,
Exciting self-suspicion strong
Swayed the brave man to his wrong.
And how–unless it were the sense
Of all-disposing Providence,
Its will unquestionably shown–
How has the Banner clung so fast
To a palsied, and unconscious hand;
Clung to the hand to which it passed
Without impediment? And why,
But that Heaven’s purpose might be known,
Doth now no hindrance meet his eye,
No intervention, to withstand
Fulfilment of a Father’s prayer
Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest
When all resentments were at rest,
And life in death laid the heart bare?–
Then, like a spectre sweeping by,
Rushed through his mind the prophecy
Of utter desolation made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sighed, submitting will and power
To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.
“No choice is left, the deed is mine–
Dead are they, dead!–and I will go,
And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,
Will lay the Relic on the shrine.”
So forward with a steady will
He went, and traversed plain and hill;
And up the vale of Wharf his way
Pursued;–and, at the dawn of day,
Attained a summit whence his eyes
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
There Francis for a moment’s space
Made halt–but hark! a noise behind
Of horsemen at an eager pace!
He heard, and with misgiving mind.
–‘Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand
Of death had drunk their punishment,
Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
How Francis, with the Banner claimed
As his own charge, had disappeared,
By all the standers-by revered.
His whole bold carriage (which had quelled
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled
All censure, enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven
Against that overcoming light)
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,
That to what place soever fled
He should be seized, alive or dead.
The troop of horse have gained the height
Where Francis stood in open sight.
They hem him round–“Behold the proof,”
They cried, “the Ensign in his hand!
‘He’ did not arm, he walked aloof!
For why?–to save his Father’s land;–
Worst Traitor of them all is he,
A Traitor dark and cowardly!”
“I am no Traitor,” Francis said,
“Though this unhappy freight I bear;
And must not part with. But beware;–
Err not by hasty zeal misled,
Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,
Whose self-reproaches are too strong!”
At this he from the beaten road
Retreated towards a brake of thorn,
That like a place of vantage showed;
And there stood bravely, though forlorn.
In self-defence with warlike brow
He stood,–nor weaponless was now;
He from a Soldier’s hand had snatched
A spear,–and, so protected, watched
The Assailants, turning round and round;
But from behind with treacherous wound
A Spearman brought him to the ground.
The guardian lance, as Francis fell,
Dropped from him; but his other hand
The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,
One, the most eager for the prize,
Rushed in; and–while, O grief to tell!
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes
Unclosed the noble Francis lay–
Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;
But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,
The wounds the broidered Banner showed,
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good!
Proudly the Horsemen bore away
The Standard; and where Francis lay
There was he left alone, unwept,
And for two days unnoticed slept.
For at that time bewildering fear
Possessed the country, far and near;
But, on the third day, passing by
One of the Norton Tenantry
Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man
Shrunk as he recognised the face,
And to the nearest homesteads ran
And called the people to the place.
–How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
This was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there
Should be; to her they cannot bear
This weight of anguish and despair.
So, when upon sad thoughts had prest
Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent
And no one hinder their intent,
Then, they, for Christian pity’s sake,
In holy ground a grave would make;
And straightway buried he should be
In the Churchyard of the Priory.
Apart, some little space, was made
The grave where Francis must be laid.
In no confusion or neglect
This did they,–but in pure respect
That he was born of gentle blood;
And that there was no neighbourhood
Of kindred for him in that ground:
So to the Churchyard they are bound,
Bearing the body on a bier;
And psalms they sing–a holy sound
That hill and vale with sadness hear.
But Emily hath raised her head,
And is again disquieted;
She must behold!–so many gone,
Where is the solitary One?
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,–
To seek her Brother forth she went,
And tremblingly her course she bent
Toward Bolton’s ruined Priory.
She comes, and in the vale hath heard
The funeral dirge;–she sees the knot
Of people, sees them in one spot–
And darting like a wounded bird
She reached the grave, and with her breast
Upon the ground received the rest,–
The consummation, the whole ruth
And sorrow of this final truth!
