But lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree!
Let dimpled mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due; The myrtle-bough bids lovers live, But that Matilda will not give; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear; Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew; On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green- But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; And, while his crown of laurel-leaves With bloody hand the victor weaves, Let the loud trump his triumph tell; But when you hear the passing bell, Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, And twine it of the cypress-tree!
Yes! twine for me the cypress-bough'; But, O Matilda, twine not now! Stay till a few brief months are past, And I have look'd and loved my last! When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue,― Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress-tree.
O'Neale observed the starting tear,
And spoke with kind and blithesome cheer- « No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day When mourns the land thy silent lay, Shall many a wreath be freely wove By hand of friendship and of love. I would not wish that rigid Fate Had doom'd thee to a captive's state, Whose hands are bound by honour's law, Who wears a sword he must not draw; But were it so, in minstrel pride The land together would we ride, On prancing steeds, like harpers old, Bound for the halls of barons bold. Each lover of the lyre we'd seek, From Michael's mount to Skiddaw's peak, Survey wild Albyn's mountain strand, And roam green Erin's lovely land, While thou the gentler souls should move, With lay of pity and of love, And I, thy mate, in rougher strain, Would sing of war and warriors slain. Old England's bards were vanquish'd then, And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, (7) And, silenced on Iernian shore,
M'Curtin's harp (8) should charm no more!»>
In lively mood he spoke, to wile From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile.
« But," said Matilda, «ere thy name, Good Redmond, gain its destined fame, Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call Thy brother minstrel to the hall? Bid all the household, too, attend, Each in his rank a humble friend; I know their faithful hearts will grieve, When their poor mistress takes her leave, So let the horn and beaker flow To mitigate their parting woe.»>- The harper came:-in youth's first prime Himself; in mode of olden time His garb was fashion'd, to express The ancient English minstrel's dress; (9) A seemly gown of Kendal green, With gorget closed of silver sheen; His harp in silken scarf was slung, And by his side an anlace hung.
It seem'd some masquer's quaint array, For revel or for holiday.
He made obeisance, with a free Yet studied air of courtesy. Each look and accent, framed to please, Seem'd to affect a playful ease; His face was of that doubtful kind, That wins the eye but not the mind; Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss Of brow so young and smooth as this. His was the subtle look and sly, That, spying all, seems nought to spy; Round all the group his glances stole, Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole, Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look, Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. To the suspicious, or the old, Subtle and dangerous and bold Had seem'd this self-invited guest; But young our lovers,-and the rest, Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear At parting of their mistress dear, Tear-blinded to the castle-hall Came, as to bear her funeral pall.
All that expression base was gone, When waked the guest his minstrel tone; It fled at inspiration's call,
As erst the demon fled from Saul. More noble glance he cast around, More free-drawn breath inspired the sound, His pulse beat bolder and more high, In all the pride of minstrelsy! Alas! too soon that pride was o'er, Sunk with the lay that bade it soar! His soul resumed, with habit's chain, Its vices wild and follies vain, And gave the talent, with him born, To be a common curse and scorn. Such was the youth, whom Rokeby's maid, With condescending kindness, pray'd
Whose fate has been, through good and ill, To love his royal master still,
And, with your honour'd leave, would fain Rejoice you with a loyal strain.»—
Then, as assured by sign and look, The warlike tone again he took;
And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to hear A ditty of the cavalier.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true-love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o'er dale and o'er down; Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the
He has doff'd the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down.
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her king is his leader, her church is his cause; His watch-word is honour, his pay is renown,- GOD strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!—
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster-hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massy, and Brown,
With the barons of England that fight for the crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier!
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her
« Alas!» Matilda said, « that strain, Good harper, now is heard in vain! The time has been, at such a sound, When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round, An hundred manly hearts would bound; But now, the stirring verse we hear, Like trump in dying soldier's car! Listless and sad the notes we own, The power to answer them is flown. Yet not without his meet applause Be he that sings the rightful cause, Even when the crisis of its fate To human eye seems desperate. While Rokeby's heir such power retains, Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains:— And lend thy harp; I fain would try, If my poor skill can aught supply,
The harper, with a downcast look, And trembling hand, her bounty took. As yet, the conscious pride of art Hlad steel'd him in his treach'rous part; A powerful spring, of force unguess'd, That hath each gentler mood suppress'd, And reign'd in many a human breast, From his that plans the red campaign, To his that wastes the woodland reign. The falling wing, the bloodshot eye, The sportsman marks with apathy, Each feeling of his victim's ill Drown'd in his own successful skill. The veteran, too, who now no more Aspires to head the battle's roar, Loves still the triumph of his art, And traces on the pencill'd chart Some stern invader's destined way, Through blood and ruin, to his prey; Patriots to death, and towns to flame, He dooms, to raise another's name,
And shares the guilt, though not the fame.
What him for his span of time
Spent in premeditated crime?
What against pity arms his heart?-
It is the conscious pride of art.
But principles in Edmund's mind Were baseless, vague, and undefined. His soul, like bark with rudder lost, On passion's changeful tide was tost; Nor vice nor virtue had the power Beyond the impression of the hour; And O! when passion rules, how rare The hours that fall to virtue's share! Yet now she roused her-for the pride, That lack of sterner guilt supplied, Could scarce support him when arose The lay that mourn'd Matilda's woes.
SONG. THE FAREWELL.
The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear, They mingle with the song; Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear, I must not hear them long. From every loved and native haunt
The native heir must stray,
And, like a ghost whom sun-beams daunt, Must part before the day.
Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd, Their scutcheons may descend,
A line so long beloved and fear'd May soon obscurely end. No longer here Matilda's tone
Shall bid these echoes swell,
Yet shall they hear her proudly own The cause in which we fell.
The lady paused, and then again Resumed the lay in loftier strain.
Let our halls and towers decay, Be our name and line forgot, Lands and manors pass away,-
We but share our monarch's lot. If no more our annals show Battles won and banners taken, Still in death, defeat, and woe, Ours be loyalty unshaken!
Constant still in danger's hour,
Princes own'd our father's aid;
Lands and honours, wealth and power, Well their loyalty repaid.
Perish wealth, and power, and pride! Mortal boons by mortals given;
But let constancy abide :
Constancy's the gift of Heaven.
While thus Matilda's lay was heard, A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd. In peasant life he might have known As fair a face, as sweet a tone; But village notes could ne'er supply That rich and varied melody, And ne'er in cottage maid was seen The easy dignity of mien, Claiming respect, yet waving state, That marks the daughters of the great. Yet not, perchance, had these alone His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown; But while her energy of mind Superior rose to griefs combined, Lending its kindling to her eye, Giving her form new majesty,— To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd The very object he had dream'd, When, long ere guilt his soul had known, In Winston bowers he mused alone, Taxing his fancy to combine The face, the air, the voice divine, Of princess fair, by cruel fate Reft of her honours, power, and state, Till to her rightful realm restored By destined hero's conquering sword.
«Such was my vision!» Edmund thought; << And have I then the ruin wrought Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er In fairest vision form'd her peer? Was it my hand, that could unclose The postern to her ruthless focs! Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith, Their kindest mercy sudden death! Have I done this? I, who have swore, That if the globe such angel bore,
I would have traced its circle broad, To kiss the ground on which she trod!-- And now-O! would that earth would rive, And close upon me while alive!-
Is there no hope? is all then lost?- Bertram's already on his post!
Een now, beside the hall's arch'd door,
I saw his shadow cross the floor!
He was to wait my signal strain
A little respite thus we gain :
By what I heard the menials say,
Young Wycliffe's troop are on their way- Alarm precipitates the crime!
My harp must wear away the time.»— And then, in accents faint and low, He falter'd forth a tale of woe.
«And whither would you lead me then?» Quoth the friar of orders gray; And the ruffians twain replied again, By a dying woman to pray.»>-
«I see," he said, a lovely sight, A sight bodes little harm,
A lady as a lily bright,
With an infant on her arm."
e Then do thine office, friar gray, And see Thou shrive her free; Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night, Fling all its guilt on thee.
« Let mass be said, and trentals read, When thou 'rt to convent gone, And bid the bell of St Benedict Toll out its deepest tone.»>-
The shrift is done, the friar is gone, Blindfolded as he came-
Next morning all in Littlecot-hall (10) Were weeping for their dame.
Wild Darrell is an alter'd man, The village crones can tell;
He looks pale as clay, and strives to pray, If he hears the convent bell.
If prince or peer cross Darrell's way, He'll heard him in his pride- If he meet a friar of orders gray, He droops and turns aside.
« Harper! methinks thy magic lays,» Matilda said, « can goblins raise!
Well nigh my fancy can discern, Near the dark porch, a visage stern; in yonder shadowy nook
I see it!-Redmond, Wilfrid, look! A human form distinct and clear- God, for thy mercy!-It draws near!»— She saw too true. Stride after stride, The centre of the chamber wide Fierce Bertram gain'd; then made a stand, And proudly waving with his hand, Thunder'd-« Be still, upon your lives! He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives.»>- Behind their chief, the robber crew Forth from the darken'd portal drew, In silence-save that echo dread Return'd their heavy measured tread.
The lamp's uncertain lustre gave
Their arms to gleam, their plumes to wave; File after file in order pass,
Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass.
Then, halting at their leader's sign, At once they form'd and curved their line, Hemming within its crescent drear Their victims, like a herd of deer. Another sign, and to the aim Levell'd at once their muskets came,
As waiting but their chieftain's word To make their fatal volley heard.
Back in a heap the menials drew, Yet, even in mortal terror, true, Their pale and startled group oppose Between Matilda and the foes. «O haste thee, Wilfrid!» Redmond cried; <«< Undo that wicket by thy side! Bear hence Matilda-gain the wood- The pass may be awhile made good- Thy band, ere this, must sure be night- O speak not-dally not-but fly !»- While yet the crowd their motions hide, Through the low wicket door they glide, Through vaulted passages they wind, In Gothic intricacy twined; Wilfrid half led, and half he bore,
Matilda to the postern door,
And safe beneath the forest tree,
The lady stands at liberty.
The moon-beams, the fresh gale's caress, Renew'd suspended consciousness:— « Where's Redmond ?» eagerly she cries: « Thou answer'st not-he dies! he dies! And thou hast left him, all bereft Of mortal aid-with murderers left!I know it well-he would not yield His sword to man-his doom is seal'd! For scorn'd life, which thou hast bought my At price of his, I thank thee not.»—
The unjust reproach, the angry look, The heart of Wilfrid could not brook. Lady," he said, « my band so near, In safety thou mayst rest thee here. For Redmond's death thou shalt not mourn, If mine can buy his safe return.»>— He turn'd away-his heart throbb'd high, The tear was bursting from his eye. The sense of her injustice press'd Upon the maid's distracted breast,— Stay, Wilfrid, stay! all aid is vain!»- He heard, but turn'd him not again; He reaches now the postern door, Now enters--and is seen no more.
With all the agony that e'er
Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and fear, She watch'd the line of windows tall Whose Gothic lattice lights the hall, Distinguish'd by the paly red
The lamps in dim reflection shed,
While all beside in wan moon-light Each grated casement glimmer'd white. No sight of harm, no sound of ill, It is a deep and midnight still.
Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd All in the castle were at rest: When sudden on the windows shone A lightning flash, just seen and gone! A shot is heard-Again the flame Flash'd thick and fast-a volley came! Then echoed wildly, from within, Of shout and scream the mingled din, And weapon clash, and maddening cry Of those who kill, and those who die! As fill'd the hall with sulphurous smoke, More red, more dark, the death-flash broke, And forms were on the lattice cast, That struck, or struggled, as they past.
What sounds upon the midnight wind Approach so rapidly behind? It is, it is, the tramp of steeds! Matilda hears the sound, she speeds, Seizes upon the leader's rein- «O haste to aid, ere aid be vain! Fly to the postern-gain the hall!»— From saddle spring the troopers all; Their gallant steeds, at liberty, Run wild along the moon-light lea. But ere they burst upon the scene, Full stubborn had the conflict been. When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight, It gave the signal for the fight;
And Rokeby's veterans, seam'd with scars Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars, Their momentary panic o'er, Stood to the arms which then they bore (For they were weapon'd and prepared Their mistress on her way to guard). Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale, Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steel; The war-smoke soon with sable breath Darken'd the scene of blood and death, While on the few defenders close The bandits with redoubled blows,
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell, Renew the charge with frantic yell.
Wilfrid has fall'n-but o'er him stood Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and blood, Cheering his mates, with heart and hand
Still to make good their desperate stand.
Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby halls
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. What! faint ye for their savage cry,
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye? These rafters have return'd a shout As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout, As thick a smoke these hearths have given At Hallowtide or Christmas even. (11) Stand to it yet! renew the fight, For Rokeby's and Matilda's right!
These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand, Bide buffet from a true man's brand.»>-
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young, Upon the advancing foes he sprung. Woe to the wretch at whom is bent His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent! Backward they scatter'd as he came, Like wolves before the levin flame, When, 'mid their howling conclave driven, Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven. Bertram rush'd on-but Harpool clasp'd His knees, although in death he gasp'd, His falling corpse before him flung, And round the trammel'd ruffian clung. Just then, the soldiers fill'd the dome, And, shouting, charged the felons home So fiercely, that, in panic dread, They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled. Bertram's stern voice they heed no more, Though heard above the battle's roar, While, trampling down the dying man, He strove, with vollied threat and ban, In scorn of odds, in fate's despite, To rally up the desperate fight.
Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold, Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd; So dense, the combatants scarce know To aim or to avoid the blow. Smothering and blindfold grows the fight- But soon shall dawn a dismal light! 'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came The hollow sound of rushing flame; New horrors on the tumult dire Arise-the castle is on fire! Doubtful if chance had cast the brand, Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. Matilda saw-for frequent broke From the dim casements gusts of smoke. Yon tower, which late so clear defined, On the fair hemisphere reclined, That, pencill'd on its azure pure, The eye could count each embrazure, Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud, Seems giant-spectre in his shroud; Till from each loop-hole flashing light,
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