And so bestow it as you deem
In these ill days may safest seem.' 'Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks,' she said: 'O, be it not one day delayed! And, more thy sister-friend to aid, Be thou thyself content to hold
In thine own keeping Mortham's gold,
Safest with thee.' While thus she spoke,
Armed soldiers on their converse broke,
The same of whose approach afraid
The ruffians left their ambuscade.
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low,
Then looked around as for a foe,
'What mean'st thou, friend,' young Wycliffe
'Why thus in arms beset the glade?'
'That would I gladly learn from you;
For up my squadron as I drew
To exercise our martial game
Upon the moor of Barninghame,
A stranger told you were waylaid,
Surrounded, and to death betrayed.
He had a leader's voice, I ween,
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien.
He bade me bring you instant aid;
I doubted not and I obeyed.'
Wilfrid changed colour, and amazed
Turned short and on the speaker gazed,
While Redmond every thicket round
Tracked earnest as a questing hound,
And Denzil's carabine he found;
Sure evidence by which they knew
The warning was as kind as true.
Wisest it seemed with cautious speed
To leave the dell. It was agreed
That Redmond with Matilda fair
And fitting guard should home repair;
At nightfall Wilfrid should attend
With a strong band his sister-friend,
To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers
To Barnard Castle's lofty towers
Secret and safe the banded chests
In which the wealth of Mortham rests.
This hasty purpose fixed, they part,
Each with a grieved and anxious heart.
THE sultry summer day is done,
The western hills have hid the sun,
But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire.
Old Barnard's towers are purple still
To those that gaze from Toller Hill;
Distant and high, the tower of Bowes
Like steel upon the anvil glows;
And Stanmore's ridge behind that lay
Rich with the spoils of parting day,
In crimson and in gold arrayed,
Streaks yet awhile the closing shade,
Then slow resigns to darkening heaven
The tints which brighter hours had given.
Thus aged men full loth and slow
The vanities of life forego,
And count their youthful follies o'er
Till memory lends her light no more.
The eve that slow on upland fades
Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades
Where, sunk within their banks profound,
Her guardian streams to meeting wound.
The stately oaks, whose sombre frown
Of noontide made a twilight brown,
Impervious now to fainter light,
Of twilight make an early night.
Hoarse into middle air arose
The vespers of the roosting crows,
And with congenial murmurs seem
To wake the Genii of the stream;
For louder clamoured Greta's tide,
And Tees in deeper voice replied,
And fitful waked the evening wind,
Fitful in sighs its breath resigned.
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul
Felt in the scene a soft control,
With lighter footstep pressed the ground,
And often paused to look around;
And, though his path was to his love,
Could not but linger in the grove,
To drink the thrilling interest dear
Of awful pleasure checked by fear.
Such inconsistent moods have we,
Even when our passions strike the key.
Now, through the wood's dark mazes past,
The opening lawn he reached at last
Where, silvered by the moonlight ray,
The ancient Hall before him lay.
Those martial terrors long were fled
That frowned of old around its head:
The battlements, the turrets grey,
Seemed half abandoned to decay;1
On barbican and keep of stone
Stern Time the foeman's work had done.
Where banners the invader braved,
The harebell now and wallflower waved;
In the rude guard-room where of yore.
Their weary hours the warders wore,
Now, while the cheerful faggots blaze,
On the paved floor the spindle plays;
The flanking guns dismounted lie,
The moat is ruinous and dry,
The grim portcullis gone — and all
The fortress turned to peaceful Hall.
But yet precautions lately ta'en
Showed danger's day revived again;
The courtyard wall showed marks of care
The fall'n defences to repair,
Lending such strength as might withstand The insult of marauding band.
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