For vengeance dark and fell, were made,
As well might reach hell's lowest shade,
No deeper clouds the embrown'd,
grove
No nether thunders shook the ground;
The demon knew his vassal's heart,
And spared temptation's needless art.
Oft mingled with the direful theme, Came Mortham's form-was it a dream? Or had be seen, in vision true,
very
Mortham whom he slew?
Or had in living flesh appear'd
The only man on earth he fear'd?-
To try the mystic cause intent,
His eyes, that on the cliff were bent,
Counter'd at once a dazzling glance,
Like sun-beam flash'd from sword or lance.
At once he started as for fight,
But not a foeman was in sight;
He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse,
He heard the river's sounding course,
The solitary woodlands lay,
As slumbering in the summer ray.
He gazed, like lion roused, around,
Then sunk again upon the ground.
'T was but, he thought, some fitful beam,
Glanced sudden from the sparkling stream;
Then plunged him in his gloomy train
Of ill-connected thoughts again,
Until a voice behind him cried,
<< Bertram! well met on Greta side.>>
Instant his sword was in his hand, As instant sunk the ready brand; Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood
To him that issued from the wood:
Guy Denzil!-is it thou?» he said;
<< Do we two meet in Scargill shade!-
Stand back a space!-thy purpose show,
Whether thou comest as friend or foe.
Report hath said that Denzil's name
From Rokeby's band was razed with shame.»>-
« A shame I owe that hot O'Neale,
Who told his knight, in peevish zeal,
Of my marauding on the clowns
Of Calverley and Bradford downs. (6)
I reck not. In a war to strive,
Where, save the leaders, none can thrive,
Suits ill my mood; and better game
Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham,
Who watch'd with me in midnight dark,
To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park.
How think'st thou?»-« Speak thy purpose out; I love not mystery or doubt.>>
« Then list.-Not far there lurk a crew,
Of trusty comrades staunch and true,
Glean'd from both factions-Roundheads, freed
From cant of sermon and of creed;
And cavaliers, whose souls, like mine,
Spurn at the bonds of discipline.
Wiser we judge, by dale and wold,
A warfare of our own to hold,
Than breathe our last on battle-down,
For cloak or surplice, mace or crown.
Our schemes are laid, our purpose set,
A chief and leader lack we yet.-
Thou art a wanderer, it is said,
For Mortham's death thy steps waylaid;
Thy head at price-so say our spies,
Who ranged the valley in disguise.
Join then with us: though wild debate
And wrangling rend our infant state,
Each, to an equal loth to bow,
Will yield to chief renown'd as thou.»>
<< Even now,» thought Bertram, «< passion-stirr'd,
I call'd on hell, and hell has heard!
What lack I, vengeance to command,
But of staunch comrades such a band!
This Denzil, vow'd to every evil,
Might read a lesson to the devil.
Well, be it so! each knave and fool
Shall serve as my revenge's tool.»—
Aloud, « I take thy proffer, Guy,
But tell me where thy comrades lie.»>-
<< Not far from hence,» Guy Denzil said;
« Descend and cross the river's bed,
Where rises yonder cliff so gray.»
« Do thou,» said Bertram, « lead the wa
Then mutter'd, « It is best make sure;
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure.»>
He follow'd down the steep descent,
Then through the Greta's streams they went,
And, when they reach'd the farther shore,
They stood the lonely cliff before.
With wonder Bertram heard within
The flinty rock a murmur'd din;
But when Guy pull'd the wilding spray And brambles from its base away,
He saw, appearing to the air,
A little entrance low and square,
Like opening cell of hermit lone,
Dark winding through the living stone.
Here enter'd Denzil, Bertram here,
And loud and louder on their ear,
As from the bowels of the earth,
Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth.
Of old, the cavern strait and rude
In slaty rock the peasant hew'd;
And Brignal's woods, and Scargill's, wave
E'en now o'er many a sister cave, (7)
Where, far within the darksome rift,
The wedge and lever ply their thrift.
But war had silenced rural trade,
And the deserted mine was made
The banquet-hall, and fortress too,
Of Denzil and his desperate crew.
There Guilt his anxious revel kept;
There on his sordid pallet slept
Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drain'd
Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd:
Regret was there, his eye still cast
With vain repining on the past;
Among the feasters waited near,
Sorrow, and unrepentant Fear,
And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven,
With his own crimes reproaching Heaven; While Bertram show'd, amid the crew, The master-fiend that Milton drew.
Hark! the loud revel wakes again,
To greet the leader of the train.
Behold the group by the pale lamp,
That struggles with the earthy damp.
By what strange features Vice hath known
To single out and mark her own!
Yet some there are, whose brows retain
Less deeply stamp'd her brand and stain.
See
yon pale stripling! when a boy,
A mother's pride, a father's joy!
Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls reclined,
An early image fills his mind:
The cottage, once his sire's, he sees,
Embower'd upon the banks of Tees;
He views sweet Winton's woodland scene,
And shares the dance on Gainford-green.
A tear is springing-but the zest
Of some wild tale, or brutal jest,
Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest.
On him they call, the aptest mate,
For jovial song and merry feat;
Fast flies his dream-with dauntless air,
As one victorious o'er despair,
He bids the ruddy cup go round,
Till sense and sorrow both are drown'd,
And soon in merry wassail he,
The life of all their revelry,
Peals his loud song!-The Muse has found
Her blossoms on the wildest ground,
'Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd,
Themselves all profitless and rude.-
With desperate merriment he sung,
The cavern to the chorus rung;
Yet mingled with his reckless glee
Remorse's bitter agony.
O, Brignal banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily,—
«O, Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen.»———
<< If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
<< Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.»>——
When Edmund ceased his simple song,
Was silence on the sullen throng,
Till waked some ruder mate their glee
With note of coarser minstrelsy.
But, far apart, in dark divan,
Denzil and Bertram many a plan,
Of import foul and fierce, design'd,
While still on Bertram's grasping mind
The wealth of murder'd Mortham hung;
Though half he fear'd his daring tongue,
When it should give his wishes birth,
Might raise a spectre from the earth!
To spell the subject of your fear;
Nor do I boast
Vision and omen to expound.
Yet, faith if I
To spectre watching treasured hoard, As ban-dog keeps his master's roof, Bidding the plunderer stand aloof, This doubt remains-thy goblin gaunt Hath chosen
For why is guard on Mortham hold, When Rokeby Castle hath the gold
By stealth > by piracy, and spoil?»
At this he paused-for angry shame
the brow of Risingham,
He blushd to think that he should seem Assertor of an airy dream,
And gave his wrath another theme. be says, "though lowly laid,
Wrong not the memory of the dead;
For, while he lived, at Mortham's look,
Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook!
And when he tax'd thy breach of word
To yon fair Rose of Allenford,
I saw thee crouch like chasten'd hound,
Whose back the huntsman's lash hath found.
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth
The spoil of piracy or stealth;
He won it bravely with his brand,
When Spain waged warfare with our land. (8)
Mark too-I brook no idle jeer,
Nor couple Bertram's name with fear;
Mine is but half the demon's lot,
For I believe, but tremble not.
Enough of this.-Say, why this hoard
Thou deem'st at Rokeby Castle stored!
Or think'st that Mortham would bestow
His treasure with his faction's foe?»>
Soon quench'd was Denzil's ill-timed mirth;
Rather he would have seen the earth
Give to ten thousand spectres birth,
Than ventured to awake to flame
The deadly wrath of Risingham.
Submiss he answer'd-« Mortham's mind,
Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined.
In youth, 't is said, a gallant free,
A lusty reveller was he;
But since return'd from over sea,
A sullen and a silent mood
Hath numb'd the current of his blood.
Hence he refused each kindly call
To Rokeby's hospitable hall,
And our stout knight, at dawn of morn, Who loved to hear the bugle-horn, Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd, To see the ruddy cup go round, Took umbrage that a friend so near Refused to share his chase and cheer; Thus did the kindred barons jar, Ere they divided in the war. Yet trust me, friend, Matilda fair Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir.»>
<< Destined to her! to yon slight maid!
The prize my life had well nigh paid,
When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave,
I fought, my patron's wealth to save!-
Denzil, I knew him long, but ne'er
Knew him that joyous cavalier,
Whom youthful friends and early fame
Call'd soul of gallantry and game.
A moody man he sought our crew,
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew;
And rose as men with us must rise,
By scorning life and all its ties.
On each adventure rash he roved,
As danger for itself he loved;
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine;
Ill was the omen if he smiled,
For 't was in peril stern and wild';
But when he laugh'd, each luckless mate
Might hold our fortune desperate.
Foremost he fought in every broil,
Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil;
Nay, often strove to bar the way
Between his comrades and their prey;
Preaching, even then, to such as we,
Hot with our dear-bought victory,
Of mercy and humanity!
<< I loved him well-his fearless part, His gallant leading, won, my heart. And, after each victorious fight, 'T was I that wrangled for his right, Redeem'd his portion of the prey That greedier mates had torn away; In field and storm thrice saved his life, And once amid our comrades' strife.--(9) Yes, I have loved thee! well hath proved My toil, my danger, how I loved! Yet will I mourn no more thy fate, Ingrate in life, in death ingrate. Rise, if thou canst!»-he look'd around, And sternly stamp'd upon the ground
Rise, with thy bearing proud and high,
Even as this morn it met mine eye,
And give me, if thou darest, the lie!»-
He paused-then, calm and passion-freed,
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed.
Bertram, to thee I need not tell
What thou hast cause to wot so well,
How superstition's nets were twined
Around the Lord of Mortham's mind;
But since he drove thee from his tower,
A maid he found in Greta's bower,
Whose speech, like David's harp, had sway
To charm his evil fiend away.
I know not if her features moved
Remembrance of the wife he loved;
But he would gaze upon her eye,
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh.
He, whom no living mortal sought
To question of his secret thought,
Now, every thought and care confess'd
To his fair niece's faithful breast;
Nor was there aught of rich or rare,
In earth, in ocean, or in air,
But it must deck Matilda's hair.
Her love still bound him unto life;
But then awoke the civil strife,
And menials bore, by his commands,
Three coffers with their iron bands,
From Mortham's vault at midnight deep,
To her lone bower in Rokeby-keep,
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride,
His gift, if he in battle died.»-
<< Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train,
These iron-banded chests to gain;
Else, wherefore should he hover here,
Where many a peril waits him near,
For all his feats of war and peace,
For plunder'd boors and harts of greece?1
Since through the hamlets as he fared,
What hearth has Guy's marauding spared,
Or where the chase that hath not rung
With Denzil's bow at midnight strung?»-
-« I hold my wont-my rangers go
Even now to track a milk-white doe. (10)
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair,
In Greta wood she harbours fair,
And when my huntsman marks her way,
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey?
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power,
We rate her ransom at her dower!»—
<< "T is well!—there's vengeance in the thought! Matilda is by Wilfrid sought,
And hot-brain'd Redmond, too, 't is said,
Pays lover's homage to the maid.
Bertram she scorn'd-if met by chance,
She turn'd from me her shuddering glance,
Like a nice dame, that will not brook
On what she hates and loathes to look ;
She told to Mortham, she could ne'er
Behold me without secret fear,
Foreboding evil :-she may rue
To find her prophecy fall true!—
The war has weeded Rokeby's train,
Few followers in his halls remain ;
If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold,
We are enow to storm the hold,
Bear off the plunder and the dame,
And leave the castle all in flame.»>—
« Still art thou Valour's venturous son! Yet ponder first the risk to run:
The menials of the castle, true,
And stubborn to their charge, though few;
The wall to scale-the moat to cross-
The wicket-grate-the inner fosse->>
<< Fool! if we blench for toys like these,
On what fair guerdon can we seize?
Our hardiest venture, to explore
Some wretched peasant's fenceless door,
And the best prize we bear away
The earnings of his sordid day.>>-
-<< Awhile thy hasty taunt forbear:
In sight of road more sure and fair,
Thou wouldst not chuse, in blindfold wrath,
Or wantonness, a desperate path?
List then-for vantage or assault,
From gilded vane to dungeon-vault,
Each path of Rokeby-house I know;
There is one postern dark and low,
That issues at a secret spot,
By most neglected or forgot.
Now, could a spial of our train
On fair pretext admittance gain,
That sally-port might be unbarr'd;
Then, vain were battlement and ward!»
Of early hopes his childhood gave,—
Now center'd all in Brignal cave!
I watch him well-his wayward course
Shows oft a tincture of remorse;
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart,
And oft the scar will ache and smart.
Yet is he useful;-of the rest
By fits the darling and the jest,
His harp, his story, and his lay,
Oft aid the idle hours
away:
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate
Is ripe for mutinous debate.
He tuned his strings e'en now-again
He wakes them, with a blither strain.»>
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth (12) prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright:
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore (13) meets Allen-a-
Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;
The mother, she ask'd of his household and home;
Though the castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill,
My hall,» quoth bold Allen, «< shows gallanter still;
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles!» said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone;
But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry!
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale!
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side,
And then young Redmond in his pride
Shot down to meet them on their way;
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say:
There's time to pitch both toil and net,
Before their path be homeward set,»-
A hurried and a whisper'd speech
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach,
Who, turning to the robber band,
Bade four the bravest take the brand.
WHEN Denmark's Raven soar'd on high,
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky,
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke, (1)
And the broad shadow of her wing
Blacken'd each cataract and spring,
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source,
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force; (2)
Beneath the shade the Northmen came,
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name, (3)
Rear'd high their altars' rugged stone,
And gave their gods the land they won.
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine,
And one sweet brooklet's silver line,
And Woden's Croft did title gain
From the stern Father of the Slain!
But to the Monarch of the Mace,
That held in fight the foremost place,
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse,
Near Startforth high they paid their vows,
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame,
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name.
Yet scald or kemper err'd, I ween,
Who gave that soft and quiet scene,
With all its varied light and shade,
And
every little
sunny glade,
And the blithe brook that strolls along
Its pebbled bed with summer song,
To the grim god of blood and scar,
The grisly King of Northern War.
O better were its banks assign'd
To spirits of a gentler kind!
For, where the thicket-groups recede,
And the rathe primrose decks the mead,
The velvet grass seems carpet meet
For the light fairies' lively feet.
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown,
Might make proud Oberon a throne,
While, hidden in the thicket nigh,
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly;
And where profuse the wood-veitch clings
Round ash and elm in verdant rings,
Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower
Should canopy Titania's bower.
Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade, But skirting every sunny glade,
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