"I witnessed when to York they came-- 60 What, Lady, if their feet were tied; They might deserve a good Man's blame; But marks of infamy and shame-- These were their triumph, these their pride; Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 65 Deep feeling, that found utterance loud,[136] 'Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried,[137] 'A Prisoner once, but now set free! 'Tis well, for he the worst defied Through force of[138] natural piety; 70 He rose not in this quarrel, he, For concord's sake and England's good, Suit to his Brothers often made With tears, and of his Father prayed-- And when he had in vain withstood 75 Their purpose--then did he divide,[139] He parted from them; but at their side Now walks in unanimity. Then peace to cruelty and scorn, While to the prison they are borne, 80 Peace, peace to all indignity!' "And so in Prison were they laid-- Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, For I am come with power to bless, By scattering gleams,[140] through your distress, 85 Of a redeeming happiness. Me did a reverent pity move And privilege of ancient love; And, in your service, making bold, Entrance I gained to that strong-hold.[141] 90 "Your Father gave me cordial greeting; But to his purposes, that burned Within him, instantly returned: He was commanding and entreating, And said--'We need not stop, my Son! 95 Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on'--[142] And so to Francis he renewed His words, more calmly thus pursued. "'Might this our enterprise have sped, Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 100 A renovation from the dead, A spring-tide of immortal green: The darksome altars would have blazed Like stars when clouds are rolled away; Salvation to all eyes that gazed, 105 Once more the Rood had been upraised To spread its arms, and stand for aye. Then, then--had I survived to see New life in Bolton Priory; The voice restored, the eye of Truth 110 Re-opened that inspired my youth; To see[143] her in her pomp arrayed-- This Banner (for such vow I made) Should on the consecrated breast Of that same Temple have found rest: 115 I would myself have hung it high, Fit[144] offering of glad victory! "'A shadow of such thought remains To cheer this sad and pensive time; A solemn fancy yet sustains 120 One feeble Being--bids me climb Even to the last--one effort more To attest my Faith, if not restore.