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..

II.

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.

In fair variety of green

The woodland lends its sylvan screen.
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak,
Its boughs by weight of ages broke;
And towers erect, in sable spire,
The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire;
The drooping ash and birch, between,
Hang their fair tresses o'er the green,
And all beneath at random
grow,
Each coppice dwarf of varied. show,
Or round the stems profusely twined,
Fling summer odours on the wind.
Such varied group, Urbino's hand
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd,
What time he bade proud Athens own
On Mars's Mount the God Unknown!
Then gray philosophy stood nigh,
Though bent by age, in spirit high;
There rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear,
There Grecian beauty bent to hear,
While Childhood at her foot was placed,
Or clung delighted to her waist.

IV.

« And rest we here,» Matilda said,
And sate her in the varying shade.
«Chance-met, we well may steal an hour,
To friendship due from fortune's power.
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend
Thy counsel to thy sister-friend;
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest,
No farther urge thy desperate quest,
For to my care à charge is eft,
Dangerous to one of aid bereft,
Well-nigh an orphan, and alone,

Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown.»>-
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced,
Beside her on the turf she placed;
Then paused, with downcast look and

eye,

Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh.

Her conscious diffidence he saw, Drew backward as in modest awe, And sate a little space removed, Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved.

V.

Wreath'd in its dark-brown rings, her hair
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair,
Half hid and half reveal'd to view
Her full dark eye of hazel hue.
The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That you had said her hue was pale;
But if she faced the summer gale,
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,
Or heard the praise of those she loved,
Or when of interest was express'd
Aught that waked feeling in her breast,
The mantling blood in ready play
Rivall'd the blush of rising day.
There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high,
The eye-lash dark and downcast eye;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resign'd;-

'Tis that which Roman art has given,

To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven.
In hours of sport, that mood gave way,
To Fancy's light and frolic play;"
And when the dance, or tale, or song,
In harmless mirth sped time along,
Full oft her doating sire would call
His Maud the merriest of them all.
But days of war, and civil crime,
Allow'd but ill such festal time,
And her soft pensiveness of brow
Had deepen'd into sadness now.
In Marston field her father ta'en,
Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain,
While every ill her soul foretold,
From Oswald's thirst of power and gold,
And boding, thoughts that she must part
With a soft vision of her heart,-
All lour'd around the lovely maid,
To darken her dejection's shade.

VI.

Who has not heard-while Erin yet Strove 'gainst the Saxons iron bitWho has not heard ho brave O'Neale In English blood imbrued his steel, (4) Against St George's cross blazed high The banners of his Tanistry,

To fiery Essex gave the foil,

And reign'd a prince in Ulster's soil?

But chief arose his victor pride,

When that brave marshal fought and died, (5) And Avon-Duff to ocean bore

His billows, red with Saxon gore.

'T was first in that disastrous fight,

Rokeby and Mortham proved their might.
There had they fall'n among the rest,
But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast;
The Tanist he to great O'Neale, (6)
He check'd his followers' bloody zeal,
To quarter took the kinsmen bold,
And bore them to his mountain-hold,
Gave them each sylvan joy to know,
Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could show;
Shared with them Erin's festal cheer,
Show'd them the chase of wolf and deer,
And, when a fitting time was come,
Safe and unransom'd sent them home,
Loaded with may a gift, to prove
A generous foe's respect and love.

VII.

Years speed away. On Rokeby's head
Some touch of early snow was shed;
Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave,
The peace which James the Peaceful gave,
While Mortham, far beyond the main,
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain.-
It chanced upon a wintry night,
That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy height,
The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd,
In Rokeby-hall the cups were fill'd,
And, by the huge stone-chimney, sate.
The knight, in hospitable state.
Moonless the sky, the hour was late,
When a loud summons shook the gate,

And sore for entrance and for aid
A voice of foreign accent pray'd,
The porter answer'd to the call,
And instant rush'd into the hall
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.

VIII.

Ilis plaited hair in elf-locks spread (7)
Around his bare and matted head;

On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and trim,
His 'vesture show'd the sinewy limb;
In saffron dyed, a linen vest
Was frequent folded round his breast;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore."
He clasp'd a burthen to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,
The snow from hair and beard he shook,
And round him gazed with wilder'd look:
Then up the hall, with staggering pace,
He hasten'd by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air,
His load, a boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he outed low,
Then stood erect his tale to show,
With wild majestic port and tone,
Like envoy of some barbarous throne. (8)
<< Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear!
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear;
He graces thee, and to thy care
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair.
He bids thee breed him as thy son,
For Turlough's days of joy are done;
And other lords have seized his land,
And faint and feeble is his hand.
And all the glory of Tyrone
Is like a morning vapour flown.
To bind the duty on thy soul,
He bids thee think of Erin's bowl!
If any wrong the young O'Neale,
He bids thee think on Erin's steel.
To Mortham first this charge was due,.
But, in his absence, honours you.—
Now is my master's message by,
And Ferraught will contented die—

IX.

His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew pale, 'He sunk when he had told his tale, For, hid beneath his mantle wide, A mortal wound was in his side. Vain was all aid-in terror wild, And sorrow, scream'd the orphan child. Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes, And faintly strove to soothe his cries; All reckless of his dying pain, He bless'd, and bless'd him o'er again! And kiss'd the little hands outspread, And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head, And, in his native tongue and phrase, Pray'd to each saint to watch his days; Then all his strength together drew, The charge to Rokeby to renew. When half was falter'd from his breast, And half by dying sigus express'd,

« Bless thee, O'Neale!» he faintly said, And thus the faithful spirit fled.

X.

1

T was long ere soothing might prevail Upon the child to end the tale; And then he said, that from his home His grandsire had been forced to roam, Which had not been if Redmond's hand Had but had strength to draw the brand, The brand of Lenaugh More the Red, That hung beside the gray wolf's head.— "T was from his broken phrase descried, His foster-father was his guide, (9) Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore Letters, and gifts a goodly store; But ruffians met them in the wood, Ferraught in battle boldly stood, Till wounded and o'erpower'd at length, And stripp'd of all, his failing strength Just bore him here-and then the child Renew'd again his moaning wild.

XI.

The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry;
Won by their care, the orphan child
Soon on his new protectors smiled,
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair.
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;
"T was his, with elder brother's pride,
Matilda's tottering steps to guide;
His native lays in Irish tongue,
To soothe her infant ear, he sung,
And primrose twined with daisy fair,
To form a chaplet for her hair.

By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,
The children still were hand in hand,
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed
The early knot so kindly tied.

XII.

But summer months bring wilding shoot From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit; And years draw on our human span, From child to boy, from boy to man; And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen A gallant boy in hunter's green. He loves to wake the felon boar, In his dark haunt on Greta's shore, And loyes, against the deer so dun, To draw the shaft, or lift the gun; Yet more he loves, in autumn prime, The hazel's spreading boughs to climb, And down its cluster'd stores to hail, Where young Matilda holds her veil. And she, whose veil receives the shower, Is alter'd too, and knows her power; Assumes a monitress's pride, Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide, Yet listens still to hear him tell How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,

That only would his life retain,
To aid thy sire to bear his chain !»-
Thus Redmond to himself apart,
Nor lighter was his rival's heart;
For Wilfrid, while his generous soul
Disdain'd to profit by control,

By many a sign could mark too plain,
Save with such aid, his hopes were vain.
But now Matilda's accents stole
On the dark visions of their soul,
And bade their mournful musing fly,
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh.

XVIII.

<< I need not to my friends recal
How Mortham shunn'd my father's hall;
A man of silence and of woe,
Yet ever anxious to bestow

On my poor self whate'er could prove
A kinsman's confidence and love.
My feeble aid could sometimes chase
The clouds of sorrow for a space,
But, oftener, fix'd beyond my power,
I mark'd his deep despondence lower.
One dismal cause, by all unguess'd,
His fearful confidence confess'd;
And twice it was my hap to see
Examples of that agony,

Which for a season can o'erstrain
And wreck the structure of the brain.
He had the awful power to know
The approaching mental overthrow,
And while his mind had courage yet
To struggle with the dreadful fit,
The victim writhed against its throes,
Like wretch beneath a murderer's blows.
This malady I well could mark,
Sprung from some direful cause and dark;
But still he kept its source conceal'd,
Till arming for the civil field;
Then in my charge he bade me hold
A treasure huge of gems and gold,
With this disjointed dismal scroll
That tells the secret of his soul,
In such wild words as oft betray
A mind by anguish forced astray.

XIX.

-MORTHAM'S HISTORY.

« Matilda! thou hast seen me start,
As if a dagger thrill'd my heart,
When it has happ'd some casual phrase
Waked memory of my former days.
Believe, that few can backward cast
Their thoughts with pleasure on the past.
But my youth was rash and vain,
And blood and rage my manhood stain,
And my gray hairs must now descend
To my cold grave without a friend!
Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown
Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known.
And must I lift the bloody veil,
That hides my dark and fatal tale?
I must-I will-pale phantom, cease!
Leave me one little hour in peace!

Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill
Thine own commission to fulfil?
Or, while thou point'st with gesture fierce,
Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse,
How can I paint thee as thou wert,
So fair in face, so warm in heart!

XX.

«Yes, she was fair!-Matilda, thou
Hast a soft sadness on thy brow;
But her's was like the sunny glow,
That laughs on earth and all below!
We wedded secret-there was need-
Differing in country and in creed;
And when to Mortham's tower she came,
We mention'd not her race and name,
Until thy sire, who fought afar,
Should turn him home from foreign war,
On whose kind influence we relied
To soothe her father's ire and pride.
Few months we lived retired, unknown,
To all but one dear friend alone,
One darling friend-I spare his shame,
I will not write the villain's name!
My trespasses I might forget,
And sue in vengeance for the debt
Due by a brother worm to me,
Ungrateful to God's clemency,
That spared me penitential time,
Nor cut me off amid my crime.-

XXI.

« A kindly smile to all she lent,
But on her husband's friend 't was bent
So kind, that, from its harmless glee,
The wretch misconstrued villany.
Repulsed in his presumptuous love,
A vengeful snare the traitor wove.
Alone we sate-the flask had flow'd,
My blood with heat unwonted glow'd,
When through the alley'd walk we spied
With hurried step my Edith glide,
Cowering beneath the verdant screen,
As one unwilling to be seen.

Words cannot paint the fiendish smile
That curl'd the traitor's cheek the while!
Fiercely 1 question'd of the cause;

He made a cold and artful pause,

Then pray'd it might not chafe my mood-
'There was a gallant in the wood!'
We had been shooting at the deer;
My cross-bow (evil chance) was near:
That ready weapon

of my wrath

I caught, and, hasting up the path,
In the yew-grove my wife I found,
A stranger's arms her neck had bound!

I mark'd his heart-the bow I drew

I loosed the shaft-'t was more than true!

I found my Edith's dying charms
Lock'd in her murder'd brother's arms!
He came in secret to inquire

Her state, and reconcile her sire.

XXII.

« All fled my rage-the villain first, Whose craft my jealousy had nursed;