XXVII.

They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath,
Doom'd to captivity or death,
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent,
Saw not, nor heard, the ambushment.
Heedless and unconcern'd they sate,
While on the very verge of fate;
Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd,

When Heaven the murderer's arm restrain'd;
As ships drift darkling down the tide,
Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide.
Uninterrupted thus they heard
What Mortham's closing tale declared.
He spoke of wealth as of a load
By fortune on a wretch bestow'd,
In bitter mockery of hate,

His cureless woes to aggravate;
But yet he pray'd Matilda's care

Might save that treasure for his heir-
His Edith's son-for still he raved

As confident his life was saved;
In frequent vision, he averr'd,
He saw his face, his voice he heard.
Then argued calm-had murder been,
The blood, the corpses, had been seen;
Some had pretended, too, to mark
On Windermere a stranger bark,
Whose crew, with jealous care, yet mild,
Guarded a female and a child:

While these faint proofs he told and press'd,
Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast;
Though inconsistent, vague, and vain,
It warp'd his judgment and his brain.

XXVIII.

These solemn words his story close :-
<< Heaven witness for me, that I chose
My part in this sad civil fight,

Moved by no cause but England's right.
My country's groans have bid me draw
My sword for gospel and for law;-
These righted, I fling arms aside,
And seek my son through Europe wide;
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh
Already casts a grasping eye,
With thee may unsuspected lie.
When of my death Matilda hears,

Let her retain her trust three

years; If none, from me, the treasure claim, Perish'd is Mortham's race and name; Then let it leave her generous hand, And flow in bounty o'er the land, Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot; So spoils, acquired by fight afar, Shall mitigate domestic war.»>—

ΧΧΙΧ.

The generous youth, who well had known
Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone,
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved,
Gave sympathy his woes deserved;
But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd
Why Mortham wish'd his life conceal'd,—
In secret, doubtless, to pursue

The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew.

Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell,
That she would share her father's cell,
His partner of captivity,

Where'er his prison-house should be;
Yet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall,
Dismantled, and forsook by all,
Open to rapine and to stealth,
Had now no safeguard for the wealth
Entrusted by her kinsman kind,
And for such noble use design'd.

« Was Barnard Castle then her choice,>> Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice,

« Since there the victor's laws ordain,
Her father must a space remain?»—
A flutter'd hope his accents shook,
A flutter'd joy was in his look.
Matilda hasten'd to reply,

For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye;—

grave:

He felt the kindly check she gave,
And stood abash'd-then answer'd
<< I sought thy purpose, noble maid,
Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid.
I have beneath mine own command,
So wills my sire, a gallant band,
And well could send some horsemen wight
To bear the treasure forth by night,
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 delay'd!
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,
Arm'd soldiers on their converse broke,
The same of whose approach afraid,
The ruffians left their ambuscade.
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low,
Then look'd around as for a foe.

<< What mean'st thou, friend?» young Wycliffe said, 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 betray'd.
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 obey'd.»>

XXXI.

Wilfrid changed colour, and, amazed, Turn'd short, and on the speaker gazed,

While Redmond every thicket round
Track'd 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 seem'd, with cautious speed
To leave the dell. It was agreed,
'That Redmond, with Matilda fair,
And fitting guard, should home repair;
At night-fall 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 fix'd, they part,
Each with a grieved and anxious heart.

CANTO V.

I.

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 array'd,
Streaks yet awhile the closing shade,
Then slow resigns to dark'ning 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.

II.

The eve, that slow on upland fades,
Has darker closed on Rokeby's (1) 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 clamour'd Greta's tide,
And Tees in deeper voice replied,
And fitful waked the evening wind,
Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd.
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul
Felt in the scene a soft control,
With lighter footstep press'd 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 check'd by fear.
Such inconsistent moods have we,
Even when our passions strike the key.
III.

Now through the wood's dark mazes past,
The opening lawn he reach'd at last,
Where, silver'd by the moon-light ray,
The ancient hall before him lay.
Those martial terrors long were fled,
That frown'd of old around its head:
The battlements, the turrets gray,
Seem'd half abandon'd to decay;
On barbican and keep of stone
Stern time the foeman's work had done;
Where banners the invader braved,
The hare-bell now and wall-flower 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 turn'd to peaceful hall.

IV.

But yet precautions, lately ta'en,
Show'd danger's day revived again;
The court-yard wall show'd marks of care,
The fall'n defences to repair,

Lending such strength as might withstand
The insult of marauding band.

The beams once more were taught to bear
The trembling draw-bridge into air,
And not, till question'd o'er and o'er,
For Wilfrid oped the jealous door;
And when he enter'd, bolt and bar
Resumed their place with sullen jar;
Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch,
The old gray porter raised his torch,
And view'd him o'er, from foot to head,
Ere to the hall his steps he led.

That huge old hall, of knightly state,
Dismantled seem'd and desolate.
The moon through transom-shafts of stone,
Which cross'd the latticed oriels, shone,
And, by the mournful light she gave,
The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave.
Pennon and banner waved no more
O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar,
Nor glimmering arms were marshall'd seen,
To glance those sylvan spoils between.
Those arms, those ensigns, borne away,
Accomplish'd Rokeby's brave array,
But all were lost on Marston's day!
Yet, here and there, the moon-beams fall
Where armour yet adorns the wall,
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight,
And useless in the modern fight;
Like veteran relic of the wars,
Known only by neglected scars.

V.

Matilda soon to greet him came,

And bade them light the evening flame;

Said, all for parting was prepared,
And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard.
But then, reluctant to unfold
His father's avarice of gold,
He hinted, that, lest jealous eye
Should on their precious burthen pry,
He judged it best the castle-gate
To enter when the night wore late;
And therefore he had left command
With those he trusted of his band,
That they should be at Rokeby met,
What time the midnight watch was set.
Now Redmond came, whose anxious care
Till then was busied to prepare
All needful, meetly to arrange
The mansion for its mournful change.
With Wilfrid's care and kindness pleased,
His cold unready hand he seized,
And press'd it till his kindly strain
The gentle youth return'd again.
Seem'd as between them this was said,
<< Awhile let jealousy be dead;
And let our contest be, whose care
Shall best assist this helpless fair.»-

VI.

There was no speech the truce to bind,
It was a compact of the mind;
A generous thought at once impress'd
On either rival's generous breast.
Matilda well the secret took,

From sudden change of mien and look,
And-for not small had been her fear
Of jealous ire and danger near-
Felt, even in her dejected state,
A joy beyond the reach of fate.

They closed beside the chimney's blaze,
And talk'd and hoped for happier days,
And lent their spirits' rising glow
Awhile to gild impending woe ;-
High privilege of youthful time,
Worth all the pleasures of our prime!
The bickering fagot sparkled bright,
And the scene of love to sight,
gave
Bade Wilfrid's cheek more lively glow,
Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow,
Her nut-brown curls and forehead high,
And laugh'd in Redmond's azure eye.
Two lovers by the maiden sate,
Without a glance of jealous hate;
The maid her lovers sate between,
With open brow and equal mien;-
It is a sight but rarely spied,
Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride.

VII.

:

While thus in peaceful guise they sate,
A knock alarm'd the outer gate,
And, ere the tardy porter stirr'd
The tinkling of a harp was heard,
A manly voice, of mellow swell,
Bore burthen to the music well.

SONG.

<< Summer eve is gone and past, Summer dew is falling fast:

Baron's race throve never well, Where the curse of minstrel fell. If you love that noble kin,

Take the weary harper in!»>

<< Hark! Harpool parleys-there is hope,>>
Said Redmond, << that the gate will ope.>>-
<< For all thy brag and boast, I trow,
Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow,» (3)
Quoth Harpool, « nor how Greta-side
She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide;
Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast
To Richmond's friars to make a feast.
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale
Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale,

That well could strike with sword amain,
And of the valiant son of Spain,
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph;
There were a jest to make us laugh!
If thou canst tell it, in yon shed
Thou 'st won thy supper and thy bed.>>

X.

Matilda smiled; « Cold hope,» said she,
<< From Harpool's love of minstrelsy!
But for this harper, may we dare,
Redmond, to mend his couch and fare?»-
-«< O ask not me! at minstrel string
My heart from infancy would spring;
Nor can I hear its simplest strain,
But it brings Erin's dream again,
When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee
(The Filea of O'Neale was he, (4)

A blind and bearded man, whose eld
Was sacred as a prophet's held),
I've seen a ring of rugged kerne
With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern,
Enchanted by the master's lay,
Linger around the livelong day,
Shift from wild rage to wilder glce,
To love, to grief, to ecstacy,
And feel each varied change of soul
Obedient to the bard's control.-
Ah, Clandeboy! thy friendly floor
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more; (5)
Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze,
Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise !
The mantling brambles hide thy hearth,
Centre of hospitable mirth;
All undistinguish'd in the glade,
My sires' glad home is prostrate laid,
Their vassals wander wide and far,
Serve foreign lords in distant war,
And now the stranger's sons enjoy
The lovely woods of Clandeboy!»—
He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside,
The starting tear to dry and hide.

XI.

Matilda's dark and soften'd eye
Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry.
Her hand upon his arm she laid,--

<< It is the will of Heaven,» she said.

<< And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part From this loved home with lightsome heart. Leaving to wild neglect whate'er

E'en from my infancy was dear?
For in this calm domestic bound
Were all Matilda's pleasures found.
That hearth, my sire was wont to grace,
Full soon may be a stranger's place;
This hall, in which a child I play'd,
Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid,
The bramble and the thorn may braid;
Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine,
It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line.
Yet is this consolation given,

My Redmond,-'t is the will of Heaven.»—
Her word, her action, and her phrase,

Were kindly as in early days;

For cold reserve had lost its power,

In sorrow's sympathetic hour.

Young Redmond dared not trust his voice;

But rather had it been his choice

To share that melancholy hour,

Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's power,
In full possession to enjoy
Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy.

XII.

The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek;
Matilda sees, and hastes to speak.-
<«< Happy in friendship's ready aid,
Let all my murmurs here be staid!
And Rokeby's maiden will not part
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
This night at least, for Rokeby's fame,
The hospitable hearth shall flame,
And, ere its native heir retire,
Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
While this poor harper, by the blaze,
Recounts the tale of other days.
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed,
Admit him, and relieve each need.-
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try
Thy minstrel skill?—nay, no reply—
And look not sad!-I guess thy thought,
Thy verse with laurels would be bought,
And poor Matilda, landless now,
Has not a garland for thy brow.

True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades,
Nor wander more in Greta shades;

But sure, no rigid jailor, thou
Wilt a short prison-walk allow,

Where summer flowers grow wild at will,
On Marwood-chase and Toller-hill; (6)
Then holly green and lily gay
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.»>—
The mournful youth, a space aside,
To tune Matilda's harp applied;
And then a low sad descant rung,
As prelude to the lay he sung.

XIII.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;

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.

XV.

« 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.

XVI.

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.

XVII.

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