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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
And dew the woods with glittering spray.

To Bertram were addressed in vain.
Then in broad lustre shall be shown
That mighty trench of living stone,
And each huge trunk that, from the side,

Of different mood, a deeper sigh
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,

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,
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright,

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,
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill.

Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower.
Who in that dím-wood glen hath strayed,
Yet longed for Roslin's magic glade ?

Who, wandering there, hath sought to change, | The open vale is soon passed o'er,
Everi for that vale so stern and strange,

Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more;
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent,

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,
Bertram awaited not the sight

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,
While misty dawn and moonbeam palc,

That down life's current drive amain,
Still mingled in the silent dale.
By Barnard's bridge of stately stone,

As frail, as frothy, and as vain!
The southern bank of Tees they won:

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:

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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 blighted fir's sepulchral green.

The harbinger of wreck and wce.
Seemed that the trees their shadows cast
The earth that nourished them to blast;

For never knew that swarthy grove

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.
The lated peasant shunned the dell;

For Superstition wont to tell

Thus, as a man, a youth, a child
Of many a grisly sound and sight,
Scaring its path at dead of night.

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,
Like his pale victim hy his side.

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.
For not to rank nor sex confined
Is this vain ague of the mind:

Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard,

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.

See, he emerges ! -desperate now
All farther course-Yon beetling brow,
In craggy nakedness sublime,
What heart or foot shall dare to climb ?
It bears no tendril for his clasp,
Presents no angle to his grasp;
Sole stay his foot may rest upon,
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone.
Balanced on such precarious prop,
He strains his grasp to reach the top.
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes,
By Heaven, his faithless footstool shakes!
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends,
It sways, it loosens, it descends!
And downward hold its headlong way,
Crashing o'er rock and copsewood spray.
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell! -
Fell it alone ?-alone it fell.
Just on the very verge of fate,
The hardy Bertram's falling weight
He trusted to his sinewy hands,
And on the top unharmed he stands!

Wilfrid a safer path pursued,
At intervals where, roughly hewed,
Rude steps ascending from the dell'
Rendered the cliffs accessible.
By circuit slow he thus attained
The height that Risingham had gained,
And when he issued from the wood,
Before the gate of Mortham stood.
"Twas a fair scene! the moonbeam lay
On battled tower and portal gray,
And from the grassy slope he sees
The Greta flow to meet the Tees;
Where, issuing from her darksome bed,
She caught the morning's eastern red,
And through the softening vale below
Rolled her bright waves in rosy glow.
All blushing, to her bridal bed,
Like some shy maid in convent bred,
While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay,
Sing forth her nuptial roundelay.

'Twas sweetly sung, that roundelay,
That summer morn shone blithe and gay;
But morning beam, and wild-bird's call,
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall.
No porter, by the low-browed gate,
Took in the wonted niche his seat;
To the paved court no peasant drew;
Waked to their toil no menial crew;
The maiden's carol was not heard,
As to her morning task she fared:
In the void offices around,
Rung not a hoof, nor bayed a hound:
Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh,
Accused the lagging groom's delay;

| Untriinmed, undressed, neglected now,
Was alleyed walk and orchard bough;
All spoke the master's absent care,
All spoke neglect and disrepair.
South of the gate, an arrow flight,
Two mighty elms their limbs unite,
As if a canopy, to spread
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead :
For their huge boughs in arches bent
Above a massive monument,
Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise,
With many a scutcheon and device:
There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom,
Bertrain stood pondering by the toinb.

"It vanished like a fitting ghost!
Behind this tomb," he said, 'Twas lost-
This tomb, where oft I deemed lies stored
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard.
'Tis true, the aged servants said
Here his lamented wife is laid;
But weightier reasons may be guessed
For their lord's strict and stern behest,
That none should on his steps intrude,
Whene'er he sought this solitude.-
An ancient mariner I knew,
What time I sailed with Morgan's crew,
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake
Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake;
Adventurous hearts! who bartered, bold,
Their English steel for Spanish gold.
Trust not, would his experience say,
Captain or comrade with your prey;
But seek some charnel, when, at full,
The moon gilds skeleton and skull:
There dig, and tomb your precious heap,
And bid the dead your treasure keep;
Sure stewards they, if fitting spell
Their service to the task compel.
Lacks there such charnel ?-kill a slave,
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave;
And bid his discontented ghost
Stalk nightly on his lonely post.-
Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween,
Is in my morning vision seen."-

Wilfrid, who scorned the legend wild,
In mingled mirth and pity smiled,
Much marvelling that a breast so bold
In such fond tale belief should hold;
But yet of Bertram songht to know
The apparition's form and show.-
The power within the guilty bueast,
Oft vanquished, never quite suppressed,
That unsubdued and lurking lies,
To take the felon by surprise,
And force him, as by magic spell,
In his despite his guilt to tell, -
That power in bertram's breast awoke:
Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke:
" 'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to head!
His morion, with the plume of red,
His shape, his mien-'twas Mortham, right
As when I slew him in the fight."-
" Thou slay him ?-thou?"-With conscious start
He heard, then manned his haughty heart.--
"I slew him?-I!--I had forgot
Thou, stripling, knewst not of the plot.
But it is spoken--nor will I
Heed done, or spoken word, deny.
I slew him: I! for thankless pride :-
"Twas by this hand that Mortham died."-

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart,
Averse to every active part,
But most averse to martial broil,
From danger shrunk, and turned from toil;
Yet the meek lover of the lyre
Nursed one brave spark of noble fire;
Against injustice, fraud, or wrong,
His blood beat high, his hand waxed strong,

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1 In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear l'nshaken, danger, toil, and pain :

A guilty hope, a guilty fear;
But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, On his pale brow the dew-drop broke,
He rose superior to his frame.

And his lip quivered as he spoke;-
And now it came, that generous mood;
And, in full current of his blood,

On Bertram he laid desperate hand,

"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 ;
A moment fixed, as by a spell,

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,
Is given thee; add not crime to crime.'

False Risingham shall yield or die. -

Ring out the castle 'larum bell!
Mute, and uncertain, and amazed,

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,
His look and accent of command,

Let him dismount and follow me!
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,

Else on your crests sit fear and shame,
His war-bleached locks-'twas Mortham all.

And foul suspicion dog your name!
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career

A thousand thoughts, and all of fear;
His wavering faith received not quite

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!
Nor longer the warrior stood,

Retiring eastward through the wood;
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,

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;
Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear,

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,
Avouched him murderer of his lord!

His soul to every sound is lent;
Even now we fought-but, when your tread For in each shout that cleaves the air,
Announced you nigh, the felon fled."

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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,
Who hears the settlers track his way,
And knows in distant forest faro
Camp his red brethren of the war;
He, when each double and disguise
To baffle the pursuit he tries.
Low crouching now his head to hide,
Where swampy streams through rushes glide,
Now covering with the withered leaves
The foot-prints that the dew receives;
He, skilled in every sylvan guile,
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile,
As Risingham, when on the wind
Arose the loud pursuit behind.
In Redesdale his youth had heard
Each art her wily dalesmen dared,
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high,
To bugle rung and bloodhound's cry,
Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear,
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear;
And well his venturous life had proved
The lessons that his childhood loved.

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
Each attribute of roving war; 2004
The sharpened ear, the piercing eye,
The quick resolve in danger night
The speed, that in the flight or chase,
Outstripped the Charib's rapid race:
The steady brain, the sinewy limb,
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim;
The iron frame, inured to bear
Each dire inclemency of air,
Nor less confirmed to undergo
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe.
These arts he proved, his life to save
In peril oft by land and wave,
On Arawaca's desert shore,
Or where La Plata's billows roar,
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain
Tracked the marauder's steps in vain.
These arts, in Indian warfare tried,
Must save him now by Greta's side.

'Twas then, in hour of utmost need,
He proved his courage, art, and speed.
Now slow he stalked with stealthy pace,
Now started forth in rapid race,

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