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But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle-bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;

Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue
With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew;'
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen

The flower she loves of emerald green→→→→
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree!

Yes! twine for me the cypress-bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and loved my last!
When villagers my shroud, bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,—
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree.

XIV.

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 barous 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, (2)
And, silenced on lernian shore,

M'Gurtin'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 hut 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 scem'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.

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Here to renew the strain she loved, At distance heard and well approved.

XVIII.

SONG. THE HARP.

I was a wild and wayward boy,

My childhood scorn'd each childish toy;
Retired from all, reserved and coy,
To musing prone,

I woo'd my solitary joy,
My harp alone.

My youth, with bold ambition's mood,
Despised the humble stream and wood
Where my poor father's cottage stood,

To fame unknown;

What should my soaring views make good? My harp alone.

Love came with all his frantic fire,
And wild romance of vain desire;
The baron's daughter heard my lyre,
And praised the tone;-

What could presumptuous hope inspire?
My harp alone.

At manhood's touch the bubble burst,
And manhood's pride the vision curst,
And all that had my folly nursed
Love's sway to own;

Yet spared the spell that lull'd me first,
My harp alone.

Woe came with war, and want with woe;
And it was mine to undergo
Each outrage of the rebel foe:-

Can aught atone

My fields made waste, my cot laid low?
My harp alone!

Ambition's dreams I've seen depart,
Have rued of penury the smart,
Have felt of love the venom'd dart
When hope was flown;

Yet rests one solace to my heart,—
My harp alone!

Then, over mountain, moor, and hill,
My faithful harp, I'll bear thee-still;
And when this life of want and ill
Is well nigh gone,
Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill,
My harp alone!

XIX.

pleasing lay!» Matilda said,
But Harpool shook his old gray head,
And took his baton and his torch,
To seek his guard-room in the porch.
Edmund observed-with sudden change,
Among the strings his fingers range,
Until they waked a bolder glee
Of military melody;

Then paused amid the martial sound,
And look'd with well-feign'd fear around ;-
<< None to this noble house belong,>>
He said, « that would a minstrel wrong,

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« Alas!» Matilda said, « that strain,
Good harper, now is heard in vain!
The time has been, at such a sound,
When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round,
An hundred manly hearts would bound;
But now, the stirring verse we hear,
Like trump in dying soldier's ear!
Listless and sad the notes we own,
The power to answer them is flown.
Yet not without his meet applause
Be he that sings the rightful cause,
Even when the crisis of its fate
To human eye seems desperate.
While Rokeby's heir such power retains,
Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains :---
And lend thy harp; I fain would try,
If my poor skill can aught supply,

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The harper, with a downcast look,
And trembling hand, her bounty took.
As yet, the conscious pride of art

Had steel'd him in his treach'rous part;
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd,
That hath each gentler mood suppress'd,
And reign'd in many a human breast,
From his that plans the red campaign,
To his that wastes the woodland reign.
The falling wing, the bloodshot eye,
The sportsman marks with apathy,
Each feeling of his victim's ill
Drown'd in his own successful skill.
The veteran, too, who now no more
Aspires to head the battle's roar,
Loves still the triumph of his art,
And traces on the pencill'd chart
Some stern invader's destined way,
Through blood and ruin, to his prey;
Patriots to death, and towns to flame,
He dooms, to raise another's name,

And shares the guilt, though not the fame.
What pays him for his span of time
Spent in premeditated crime?
What against pity arms his heart?→→
It is the conscious pride of art.

XXIII.

But principles in Edmund's mind
Were baseless, vague, and undefined.
His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On passion's changeful tide was lost;
Nor vice nor virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour;
And O! when passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to virtue's share!
Yet now she roused her-for the pride,
That lack of sterner guilt supplied,
Could scarce support him when arose
The lay that mourn'd Matilda's woes.

SONG. THE FAREWELL.

The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear,
They mingle with the song;
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,
I must not hear them long.
From every loved and native haunt

The native heir must stray,

And, like a ghost whom sun-beams daunt,
Must part before the day.

Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd,
Their scutcheons may descend,
A line so long beloved and fear'd
May soon obscurely end.
No longer here Matilda's tone

Shall bid these echoes swell,

Yet shall they hear her proudly own
The cause in which we fell.

The lady paused, and then again Resumed the lay in loftier strain.

XXIV.

Let our halls and towers decay,
Be our name and line forgot,
Lands and manors pass away,-

We but share our monarch's lot.
If no more our annals show
Battles won and banners taken,
Still in death, defeat, and woe,
Ours be loyalty unshaken! •

Constant still in danger's hour,

Princes own'd our father's aid;

Lands and honours, wealth and power, Well their loyalty repaid.

Perish wealth, and power, and pride! Mortal boons by mortals given; But let constancy abide

Constancy's the gift of Heaven.

XXV.

While thus Matilda's lay was heard,
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a facé, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody,
And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,
Claiming respect, yet waving state,.
That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown;
But while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty,-
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd
The very object he had dream'd,
When, long e'er guilt his soul had known,
In Winston bowers he mused alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine

The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of princess fair, by cruel fate
Reft of her honours, power, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restored
By destined hero's conquering sword.

XXVI.

« Such was my vision !» Edmund thought;
<< And have I then the ruin wrought
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision form'd her peer?
Was it my hand, that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes!
Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith,
Their kindest mercy sudden death!
Have I done this? I, who have swore,
That if the globe such angel bore,

I would have traced its circle broad,

To kiss the ground on which she trod!-
And now-O! would that earth would rive,
And close upon me while alive!-

Is there no hope? is all then lost?-
Bertram's already on his post!

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«Harper! methinks thy magic lays,>>
Matilda said, " can goblins raise !
Well nigh my fancy can discern,
Near the dark porch, a visage stern;
E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook
I see it!-Redmond, Wilfrid, look!
A human form distinct and clear-
God, for thy mercy!-It draws near !»-
She saw too true. Stride after stride,
The centre of the chamber wide
Fierce Bertram gain'd; then made a stand,
And, proudly waving with his hand,
Thunder'd-« Be still, upon your lives!
He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives.»-
Behind their chief, the robber crew
Forth from the darken'd portal drew,
In silence-save that echo dread
Return'd their heavy measured tread.

The lamp's uncertain lustre gave

Their arms to gleam, their plumes to wave; File after file in order pass,

Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass.

Then, halting at their leader's sign,

At once they form'd and curved their line,
Hemming within its crescent drear
Their victims, like a herd of deer.
Another sign, and to the aim
Levell'd at once their muskets came,

As waiting but their chieftain's word,
To make their fatal volley heard.

XXIX.

Back in a heap the menials drew,
Yet, even in mortal terror, true,
Their pale and startled group oppose
Between Matilda and the foes.

«Q haste thee, Wilfrid !» Redmond cried;
Undo that wicket by thy side!
Bear hence Matilda-gain the wood-
The pass may be awhile made good-
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh-
O speak not-dally not—but fly!»—
While yet the crowd their motions hide,
Through the low wicket door they glide,
Through vaulted passages they wind,

In Gothic intricacy twined;
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore,
Matilda to the postern door,

And safe beneath the forest tree

The lady stands at liberty.

The moon-beams, the fresh gale's caress, Renew'd suspended consciousness:

« Where's Redmond?» eagerly she cries:

« Thou answer'st not-he dies! he dies! And thou hast left him, all bereft Of mortal aid-with murderers left!

I know it well-he would not yield

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While all beside in wan moon-light
Each grated casement glimmer'd white,
No sight of harm, no sound of ill,
It is a deep and midnight still.

Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd
All in the castle were at rest:
When sudden on the windows shone
A lightning flash, just seen and gone!
A shot is heard-Again the flame
Flash'd thick and fast-a volley came!
Then echoed wildly, from within,
Of shout and scream the mingled din,
And weapon clash, and maddening cry
Of those who kill, and those who die!
As fill'd the hall with sulphurous smoke,
More red, more dark, the death-flash broke,
And forms were on the lattice cast,
That struck, or struggled, as they past.
XXXII.

What sounds upon the midnight wind
Approach so rapidly behind?
It is, it is, the tramp of steeds!
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds,
Seizes upon the leader's rein-
«O haste to aid, cre aid be vain!
Fly to the postern- gain the hall!»-
From saddle spring the troopers all;
Their gallant steeds, at liberty,
Run wild along the moon-light lea.
But ere they burst upon the scene,
Full stubborn had the conflict been.
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight,
It gave the signal for the fight;

And Rokeby's veterans, seam'd with scars
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars,
Their momentary panic o'er,

Stood to the arms which then they bore
(For they were weapon'd, and prepared
Their mistress on her way to guard).
Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale,
Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steel;
The war-smoke soon with sable breath
Darken'd the scene of blood and death,
While on the few defenders close
The bandits with redoubled blows,
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell,
Renew the charge with frantic yell.

XXXIII.

Wilfrid has fall'n-but o'er him stood
Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and blood,
Cheering his mates, with heart and hand
Still to make good their desperate stand.
« Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby halls

Ne'er be it said our courage falls.
What! faint ye for their savage cry,
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye?
These rafters have return'd a shout
As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout,
As thick a smoke these hearths have given
At Hallowtide or Christmas even. (11)
Stand to it yet! renew the fight,
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right!
These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand,
Bide buffet from a truc man's brand.»--

Impetuous, active, fierce, and young,
Upon the advancing foes he sprung.
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent
His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent!
Backward they scatter'd as he came,
Like wolves before the levin flame,
When, 'mid their howling conclave driven,
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven.
Bertram rush'd on-but Harpool clasp'd
His knees, although in death he gasp'd,
His falling corpse before him flung,
And round the trammel'd ruffian clung.
Just then, the soldiers fill'd the dome,
And, shouting, charged the felons home
So fiercely; that, in panic dread,
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled.
Bertram's stern voice they heed no more,
Though heard above the battle's roar,
While, trampling down the dying man,
He strove, with vollied threat and ban,
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite,
To rally up the desperate fight.

XXXIV.

Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold,
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd;
So dense, the combatants scarce know
To aim or to avoid the blow.
Smothering and blindfold grows the fight-
But soon shall dawn a dismal light!
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came
The hollow sound of rushing flame;
New horrors on the tumult dire
Arise-the castle is on fire!
Doubtful if chance had cast the brand,
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand.
Matilda saw-for frequent broke
From the dim casements gusts of smoke.
Yon tower, which late so clear defined,
On the fair hemisphere reclined,
That, pencill'd on its azure pure,
The eye could count each embrazure,
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud,
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud;
Till from each loop-hole flashing light,
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright,
And, gathering to united glare,
Streams high into the midnight air,
A dismal beacon, far and wide
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side.
Soon all beneath, through gallery long,
And pendent arch, the fire flash'd strong,
Snatching whatever could maintain,
Raise, or extend, its furious reign,
Startling, with closer cause of dread,
The females who the conflict fled,
And now rush'd forth upon the plain,
Filling the air with clamours vain.

XXXV.

. But ceased not yet, tire hall within,
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din,
Till bursting lattices give proof
The flames have caught the rafter'd roof.
What! wait they till its beams amain
Crash on the slayers and the slain?

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