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Such small to triviak
er all you of Rom Wilfrene,
, a ur toils an price sighea.
The thin gray clouds waxed dimly light
Well may you think that Bertram's mood, On Brusleton and Houghton height;
To Wilfrid savage seemed and rude; And the rich dale, that eastward lay,
Well may you think bold Risingham Waited the wakening touch of day,
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame; To give its woods and cultured plain,
And small the intercourse, I ween, And towers and spires, to light again.
Such uncongenial souls between. But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell,
- V. And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar,
Stern Bertram shunned the nearer way, And Arkingarth, lay dark afar;
Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay, While, as a livelier twilight falls,
And, skirting high the valley's ridge, Emerge proud Barnard's bannered walls.
They crossed by Greta's ancient bridge, High crowned he sits, in dawning pale,
Descending where her waters wind The sovereign of the lovely vale.
Free for a space and unconfined,
As, 'scaped from Brignal's dark wood glen, II.
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. What prospects, from the watch-tower high, There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound, Gleam gradual on the warder's eye!
Raised by that Legion long renowned, Far sweeping to the east, he sees
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, Down his deep woods the course of Tees,
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, And tracks his wanderings by the steam
"Stern sons of war!" sad Wilfred sighed, Of summer vapours from the stream;
“Behold the boast of Roman pride! And ere he pace his destined hour
What now of all your toils are known? By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower,
A grassy trench, a broken stone !" These silver mists shall melt away.
This to himself; for moral strain
To Bertram were addressed in vain.
Of different mood, a deeper sigh
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high Where Tees, full many a fathom low,
Were northward in the dawning seen Wears with his rage no common foe;
To rear them o'er the thicket green. For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,
O then, though Spenser's self had strayed Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career.
Beside him through the lovely glade, Condemned to mine a channelled way,
Lending his rich Inxuriant glow O'er solid sheets of marble gray.
Of Fancy, all its charms to show,
Pointing the stream rejoicing free,
As captive set at liberty,
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, Shall rush upon the ravished sight';
And clamouring joyful on her road; But many a tributary stream
Pointing where, up the sunny banks, Each from its own dark dell shall gleam:
The trees retire in scattered ranks, Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers
Save where, advanced before the rest, Salutes proud Raby's battled towers;
On knoll or hillock rears his crest, The rural brook of Eglistone,
Lonely and huge, the giant Oak; And Balder, named from Odin's son;
As champions, when their band is broke, And Greta, to whose banks ere long
Stand forth to guard the rearward post, We lead the lovers of the song;
The bulwark of the scattered hostAnd silver Lune, from Stanmore wild,
All this, and more, might Spenser say, And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child,
Yet waste in vain his magic lay, And last and least, but loveliest still,
While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower,
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower.
Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more;
Sinking 'mid Greta's thickets deep, Through her green copse like spires are sent ? A wild and darker course they keep, Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine,
A stern and lone, yet lovely road, Thy scenes and story to combine!
As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode! Thou bidd'st him, who by Roslin strays,
Broad shadows o'er their passage fell, List to the deeds of other days;
Deeper and narrower grew the dell; Mid Cartland's Crags thon show'st the cave, It seemed some mountain rent and riven, The refuge of thy champion brave;
A chancel for the streann had given, Giving each roek its storied tale,
So high the cliffs of limestone gray Pouring a lay for every dale,
Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, Knitting, as with a moral band,
Yielding, along their rugged base, Thy native legends with thy land,
A flinty footpath's niggard space, To lend each scene the interest high
Where he, who winds twixt rock and wave, Which genius beams from beauty's eye.
May hear the headlong torrent rave,
And like a steed in frantic fit,
That flings the froth from curb and bit,
May view her chafe her waves to spray, Which sunrise shows from Barnard's height,
O'er every rock that bars her way, But from the towers, preventing day,
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, With Wilfrid took his early way,
Thick as the schemes of human pride,
That down life's current drive amain,
As frail, as frothy, and as vain!
VIII. Their winding-path then eastward cast,
The cliffs that rear their haughty head And Eglistone's gray ruins passed;
High o'er the river's darksome bed, Each on his own deep visions bent,
Were now all naked, wild, and gray, Silent and sad they onward went.
I Now waving all with greenwood spray:
ruge spaces and
Here trees to every crevice clung.
Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May And o'er the dell their branches hung;
Beneath its universal sway. And there, all splintered and uneven,
Bertram had listed many a tale The shivered rocks ascend to heaven;
Of wonder in his native dale, Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast,
That in his secret soul retained And wreathed its garland round their crest, The credence they in childhood gained; Or from the spires bade loosely flare
Nor less his wild adventurous youth Its tendrils in the middle air.
Believed in every legend's truth, Is pennons wont to wave of old
Learned when, beneath the tropic gale, O'er the high feast of Baron bold,
Full swelled the vessel's steady sail, When revelled loud the feudal rout,
And the broad Indian moon her light And the arched halls returned their shout ; Poured on the watch of middle night, Such and more wild is Greta's roar,
When seamen love to hear and tell And such the echoes from her shore.
Of portent, prodigy, and spell: And so the ivied banners' gleam
What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream.
How whistle rash bids tempests roar.
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite, ix.
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light; Now from the stream the rocks recede,
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form But leave between no sunny mead,
Shoots like a meteor through the storm; No, nor the spot of pebbly sand,
When the dark scud comes driving hard, Oft found by such a mountain strand;
And lowered is every top-sail yard, Forming such warm and dry retreat,
And canvas, wove in earthly looms, Is fancy deems the lonely seat,
No more to brave the storm presumes! Where hermit, wandering from his coll,
Then 'mid the war of sea and sky, His rosary might love to tell.
Top and top-gallant hoisted high, But here, 'twixt rock and river grew
Full spread and crowded every sail, A dismal grove of sable yew,
The Demon Frigate braves the gale; With whose sad tints were iningled seen
And well the doomed spectators know
The harbinger of wreck and wce.
Then, too, were told, in stifled tone, The verdant hue that fairies love;
Marvels and omens all their own; Nor wilding green, nur woodland flower,
How, by some desert isle or key, Arose within its baleful bower;
Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty, The dank and sable earth receives
Or where the savage pirate's mood Its only carpet from the leaves,
Repaid it home in deeds of blood, That from the withering branches cast,
Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear Bestrewed the ground with every blast.
Appalled the listening buccaneer, Though now the sun was o'er the hill,
Whose light-armed shallop anchored lay In this dark spot 'twas twilight still,
In ambush by the lonely bay. Save that on Greta's farther side
The groan of grief, the shriek of pain, Some straggling beams through copsewood glide. Ring from the moonlight groves of cane; And wild and savage contrast made
The fierce adventurer's heart they scare, That dingle's deep and funeral shade,
Who wearies memory for a prayer, With the bright tints of early day,
Curses the roadstead, and with gale Which, glimmering through the ivy spray,
Of early morning lifts the sail, On the opposing summit lay.
To give, in thirst of blood and prey,
A legend for another bay.
Thus, as a man, a youth, a child
Trained in the mystic and the wild,
With this on Bertram's soul at times When Christmas logs blaze high and wide,
Rushed a dark feeling of his crimes; Such wonders speed the festal tide ;
Such to his troubled soul their form, While Curiosity and Fear,
As the pale death-ship to the storm, Pleasure and Pain, sits crouching near,
And such their omen dim and dread, Till childhood's cheek no longer glows,
As shrieks and voices of the dead. And village maidens lose the rose.
That pang, whose transitory force The thrilling interest rises higher,
Hovered 'twixt horror and remorse ; The circle closes nigh and nigher,
That pang, perchance, his bosom pressed, And shuddering glance is cast bohind,
As Wilfrid sudden he addressed :As louder moans the wintry wind.
Wilfrid, this glen is never trod Believe, that fitting scene was laid
Until the sun rides high abroad; For such wild tales in Mortham glade;
Yet twice have I beheld to-day For who had seen on Greta's side,
A form, that seemed to dog our way: By that dim light fierce Bertram stride,
Twice from my glance it seemed to flee In such a spot, at such an hour,
And shroud itself by cliff or tree. If touched by Saperstition's power,
How think'st thou? Is our path waylaid? Might well have deemed that hell had given A murderer's ghost to upper heaven,
Or hath thy sire my trust betrayed? While Wilfrid's form had seemed to glide
If so"--Ere, starting from his dream,
That turned upon a gentler theme,
Wilfrid had roused him to reply,
Bertram sprang forward, shouting high, Nor think to village swains alone
"Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand!" Are these unearthly terrors known;
And forth he darted, sword in hand.
As bursts the levin in its wrath, 'Gainst faith, and love, and pity barred
| He shot him down the sounding pathi
this strated the
Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out, To his loud step and savage shout. Seeins that the object of his race Hath scaled the cliffs ; his frantic chase Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent Right up the rock's tall battlement; Straining each sinew to ascend, Foot, hand, and knee, their aid must lend. Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, Views from beneath his dreadful way; Jow to the oak's warped roots he clings, Now, trust his weight to ivy strings; New, like the wild goat, must he dare Anunsupported leap in air; Hid in the shrubby rain-course now, You inark him by the crashing bough, And by his corslet's sullen clank, And by the stones spurned from the bank, And by the hawk scared from her nest, And ravens croaking o'er their guest, Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay The tribute of his bold essay.
| Untriinmed, undressed, neglected now,
ed, whoses lord to dalie's train,
uncertain, and azed
Nor his the nerves that could sustain
1 In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear l'nshaken, danger, toil, and pain :
A guilty hope, a guilty fear;
And his lip quivered as he spoke;-
"A murderer!-Philip Mortham died Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand.
Amid the battle's wildest tide. * Should every tiend, to whom thon'rt sold, Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you! Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold.
Yet, grant such strange confession trile, Arouse there, ho! take spear and sword!
Pursuit were vain--let him fiy farAttack the murderer of your lord !"
Justice must sleep in civil war."
A gallant youth rode near his side,
Brave Rokeby's page in battle tried ;
That morn, an embassy of weight Stood Bertram-it seemed miracle,
He brought to Barnard's castle gate, That one so feeble, soft, and tame,
And followed now in Wycliffe's train, Set grasp on warlike Risingham.
An answer for his lord to gain. But when he felt a feeble stroke,
His steed, whose arched and sable neck The fiend within the ruffian woke!
A hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hands,
Chafed not against the curb more high To dash him headlong on the sand,
Than he at Oswald's cold reply : Was but one moment's work,--one more
He bit his lip, implored his saint, Had drenched the blade in Wilfrid's fore:
(His the old faith)—then barst restraint. But, in the instant it arose, To end his life, his love, his woes,
XXV. A warlike Form, that marked the scene,
"Yes! I beheld his bloody fall, Presents his rapier sheathed between,
| By that base traitor's dastard ball, Parries the fast-descending blow,
Just when I thought to measure sword, And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foc;
Presumptuous hope! with Mortham's lord. Nor then unscabbarded his brand,
And shall the murderer 'scape, who slev But, sternly pointing with his hand,
His leader generous, brave, and true? With monarch's voice forbade the fight,
Escape! while on the dew you trace And motioned Bertram from his sight.
The marks of his gigantic pace? " Go, and repent," he said, “while time
No! ere the sun that dew shall dry,
False Risingham shall yield or die. -
Ring out the castle 'larum bell!
Arouse the peasants with the knell! As on a vision, Bertram gazed!
Meantime, disperse-ride, gallants, ride! "Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high,
Beset the wood on every side.
But if among you one there be, His sinewy frame, his falcon eye,
That honours Mortham's memory,
Let him dismount and follow me!
Else on your crests sit fear and shame,
And foul suspicion dog your name!
Instant to earth young REDMOND sprung; The form he saw as Mortham's sprite,
Instant on earth the harness rung But more he feared it, if it stood
Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, His lord, in living flesh and blood, -
Who waited not their lord's command. What spectre can the charnel send,
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew, So dreadful as an injured friend?
His mantle from his shoulders threw, Then, too, the habit of command,
His pistols in his belt he placed, Used by the leader of the band,
The green-wood gained, the footsteps traced. When Risingham, for many a day,
Shouted like huntsman to his hounds, Had marched and fought beneath his sway,
" To cover, hark!"-and in he bounds. Tamed him-and, with reverted face,
Searce heard was Oswald's anxious cry. Backwards he bore his sullen pace,
"Suspicion !-yes-pursue him-flyOft stppped, and oft on Mortham stared,
But venture not, in useless strife, And dark as rated mastiff glared ;
On ruffian desperate of his life. But when the tramp of steeds was heard,
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead! Plunged in the glen, and disappeared.
Five hundred nobles for his head!
The horsemen galloped to make good “Tell thou to none that Mortham lives."
Each path that issued from the wood.
Loud from the thickets rung the shout
Of Redmond and his eager rout;
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire, Hinting he knew not what of fear,
And envying Redmond's martial fire, When nearer came the courser's tread,
And emulous of fame.-But where And, with his father at their head,
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir ? Of horsemen armed a gallant power
He, bound by honour, law, and faith, Reined up their steeds before the tower.
Avenger of his kinsman's death? " Whence these pale looks, my son?" he said: Leaning against the elmin tree, “Where's Bertram ? Why that naked blade?" With drooping head and slackened knee, Wilfrid ambiguously replied,
And clenched teeth, and close-clasped hands, (For Mortham's charge his honour tied,
In agony of soul he stands! * Bertram is gone-the villain's word
His downcast eye on earth is bent,
His soul to every sound is lent;
May ring discovery and despair.
Whenby the leanabit of's
athe villa his lordo ir tread
Nike Obiayin sin geen erectly ait, con, niigi What tried mayun so now hit its banichi thoug, on, in it
Bracest dun was noightly lain,
XXVIII. What 'vailed it him, that brightly played The morning sun on Mortham's glade? All seems in giddy round to ride, Like objects on a stormy tide, Seen eddying by the moonlight dim, Imperfectly to sink and swim. What 'vailed it, that the fair domain, Its battled mansion, hill and plain, On which the sun so brightly shone, Envied so long, was now his own? The lowest dungeon, in that hour, Of Brackenbury's dismal tower, Had been his choice, could such a doom Have opened Mortham's bloody tomb! Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear To each surmise of hope or fear, Murmured among the rustics round, Who gathered at the 'larum sound, He dared not turn his head away, Even to look up to heaven to pray, Or call on hell, in bitter mood, For one sharp death-shot from the wood!
ΧΧΙΧ. At length o'erpassed that dreadful space, Back straggling came the scattered chase; Jaded and weary, horse and man, Returned the troopers, one by one. Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say, All trace was lost of Bertram's way, Though Redmond still, up Brignal wood The hopeless quest in vain pursued. 0, fatal doom of human race! What tyrant passions passions chase! Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone, Avarice and pride resume their throne; The pang of instant terror by, They dictate thus, their slave's reply.
The Indian, prowling for his prey,
XXX. “Ay-let him range like hasty hound! And if the grim wolf's lair be found, Small is my care how goes the game With Redmond or with Risingham. Nay, answer not, thou simple boy! Thy fair Matilda, all so coy To thee, is of another inood To that bold youth of Erin's blood. Thy ditties will she freely praise, And pay thy pains with courtly phrase: In a rough path will oft commandAccept at least-thy friendly hand; His she avoids, or, irged and prayed, Unwilling takes his proffered aid. While conscious passion plainly speaks In downcast look and blushing cheeks. Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh, And all her soul is in her eye, Yet doubts she still to tender free The wonted words of courtesy. These are strong signs!-yet wherefore sigh, And wipe, effeminate, thine eye? Thine shall she be, if thou attend The counsels of thy sire and friend.
XXXI. " Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of light Brought genuine news of Marston's fight. Brave Cromweli turned the doubtful tide, And conquest blessed the rightful side; Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, Rupert and that bold Marquis fled; Nobles and knights, so proud of late, Must fine for freedom and estate. Of these, committed to my charge, Is Rokeby, prisoner at large; Redmond, his page, arrived to say He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. Right heavy shall his ransom be, Unless that maid compound with thee! Go to her now-be bold of cheer, While her soul floats 'twixt hope and fear:
Oft had he shown, in climes afar, YO