The alarm is caught-the draw-bridge falls,
The warriors hurry from the walls,
But, by the conflagration's light,
Upon the lawn renew the fight.
Each straggling felon down was hew'd,
Not one could gain the sheltering wood;
But forth the affrighted harper sprung,
And to Matilda's robe he clung.
Her shriek, entreaty, and command,
Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand.
Denzil and he alive were ta'en;
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain.
And where is Bertram?-Soaring high,
The general flame ascends the sky;
In gather'd group the soldiers
gaze
Upon the broad and roaring blaze,
When, like infernal demon, sent
Red from his penal element,
To plague and to pollute the air,-
His face all gore, on fire his hair,
Forth from the central mass of smoke
The giant form of Bertram broke!
His brandish'd sword on high he rears,
Then plunged among opposing spears;
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd
Received and foil'd three lances' thrust;
Nor these his headlong course withstood,
Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood.
In vain his foes around him clung;
With matchless force aside he flung
Their boldest,-as the bull, at bay,
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way.
Through forty foes his path he made,
And safely gain'd the forest glade.
Scarce was this final conflict o'er,
When from the postern Redmond bore
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft,
.Had in the fatal hall been left,
Deserted there by all his train;
But Redmond saw, and turn'd again.-
Beneath an oak he laid him down,
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown,
And then his mantle's clasp undid;
Matilda held his drooping head,
Till given to breathe the freer air,
Returning life repaid their care.
He gazed on them with heavy sigh,-
« I could have wish'd e'en thus to die!»-
No more he said-for now with speed
Each trooper had regain'd his steed;
The ready palfreys stood array'd,
For Redmond and for Rokeby's maid;
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain,
One leads his charger by the rein.
But oft Matilda look'd behind,
As up the vale of Tees they wind,
Where far the mansion of her sires
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires.
In gloomy arch above them spread,
The clouded heaven lour'd bloody red;
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood.
Then, one by one, was heard to fall
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall.
Each rushing down with thunder sound,
A space the conflagration drown'd;
Till, gathering strength, again it rose,
Announced its triumph in its close,
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er,
Then sunk and Rokeby was no more!
THE summer sun, whose early power
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower,
And rouse her with his matin ray
Her duteous grisons to pay,
That morning sun has three times seen
The flowers unfold on Rokeby green,
But sees no more the slumbers fly
From fair Matilda's hazel eye;
That morning sun has three times broke
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak,
But, rising from their sylvan screen,
Marks no gray turrets glance between.
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower,
That, hissing to the morning shower,
Can but with smouldering vapour pay
The early smile of summer day.
The peasant, to his labour bound,
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound,
Striving, amid the ruin'd space,
Each well-remember'd spot to trace.
That length of frail and fire-scorch'd wall
Once screen'd the hospitable hall;
When yonder broken arch was whole,
'T was there was dealt the weekly dole;
And where
yon tottering columns nod,
The chapel sent the hymn to God.
So flits the world's uncertain span!
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man,
Giyes mortal monuments a date,
Beyond the power of Time and Fate.
The towers must share the builder's doom;
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb;
But better boon benignant Heaven
To Faith and Charity has given,
And bids the christian hope sublime
Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time.
Now the third night of summer came,
Since that which witness'd Rokeby's flame.
On Brignal cliffs and Scargill brake
The owlet's homilies awake,
The bittern scream'd from rush and flag,
The raven slumber'd on his crag,
Forth from his den the otter drew,
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew,
As between reed and sedge he peers,
With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears,
Or, prowling by the moon-beam cool,
Watches the stream, or swims the pool;-
Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high,"
Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, «
That all the day had watch'd so well 1
The cushat dart across the dell.
In dubious beam reflected shone
That lofty cliff of pale gray stone,
Beside whose base the secret cave
To rapine late a refuge gave.
The crag's wild crest of copse and
yew
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw;
Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight,
With every change of fitful light;
As hope and fear alternate chase
Our course through life's uncertain race.
Gliding by crag and copse-wood green,
A solitary form was seen
To trace with stealthy pace the wold,
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold,
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd,
At
every
He passes now the ivy-bush,
The owl has seen him and is hush;
He passes now the dodder'd oak,
Ye heard the startled raven croak;
Lower and lower he descends,
breath that stirs the shade.
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends;
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the cliff of pale gray stone
The midnight wanderer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remember'd form and face!
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale,
Combine to tell a rueful tale,
Of powers misused, of passion's force,
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse! ⚫
"T is Edmund's eye at every sound
That flings that guilty glance around;
'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides
The brushwood that the cavern hides,
And, when its narrow porch lies bare,
"T is Edmund's form that enters there.
His flint and steel have sparkled bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light.
Fearful and quick his eye surveys
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode,
It seem'd as none its floor had trode;
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil,
The purchase of his comrades' toil;
Masks and disguises grimed with mud,~
Arms broken and defiled with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade,
Upon the gloomy walls were hung,
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relics of the noontide cheer;
Flagons and emptied flasks were there,
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair;
And all around the semblance show'd,
As when the final revel glow'd,
When the red sun was setting fast,
And parting pledge Guy Denzil pass'd,
To Rokeby treasure-vaults! They quaff'd,
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd,
Pour'd maddening from the rocky door,
And parted-to return no more!
They found in Rokeby vaults their doom,—
A bloody death, a burning tomb.
There his own peasant dress he spies,
Doff d to assume that quaint disguise,
And shuddering thought upon his glee,
When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy.
«O be the fatal art accurst,»
He cried, «< that moved my folly first,
Till bribed by bandits' base applause,
I burst through God's and nature's laws!
Three summer days are scantly past
Since I have trode this cavern last,
A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err-
But O, as yet no murderer!
Even now I list my comrades' cheer,
That general laugh is in mine ear,
Which raised my pulse and steel'd my heart,
As I rehearsed treacherous part-
my
And would that all since then could seem
The phantom of a fever's dream!
But fatal memory notes too well
The horrors of the dying yell,
From
my despairing mates that broke,
When flash'd the fire and roll'd the smoke,
When the avengers shouting came,
And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and flame!
My frantic flight,—the lifted brand,—
That angel's interposing hand!-
If for my life from slaughter freed,
I yet could pay some grateful meed!
Perchance this object of my quest
May aid he turn'd, nor spoke the rest.
VI.
Due northward from the rugged hearth,
With paces five he metes the earth,
Then toil'd with mattock to explore
The entrails of the cavern floor,
Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground,
His search a small steel casket found.
Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp,
His shoulder felt a giant grasp;'.
He started, and look'd up aghast,
Then shriek'd-'t was Bertram held him fast.
<< Fear not!» he said; but who could hear
That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?
« Fear not!-by Heaven he shakes as much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch !»—
He raised him, and unloosed his hold,
While from the opening casket rol!'d
A chain and reliquaire of gold.
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gazed on its fashion and device,
Then, cheering Edmund as he could,
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood;
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Quiver'd with terror's agony,
And sidelong glanced, as to explore,
In meditated flight, the door.
<< Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er,
In fetters on the dungeon-floor.
A guest the third sad morrow brought;
Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought,
And eyed my comrade long askance,
With fix'd and penetrating glance.
Guy Denzil art thou call'd?'-' The same.'—
At court who served wild Buckinghame; Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, So Villiers will'd, in Marwood chase; That lost-I need not tell thee whyThou madest thy wit thy wants supply, Then fought for Rokeby :-have I guess'd My prisoner right?'-' At thy behest.'He paused awhile, and then went on With low and confidential tone; Me, as I judge, not then he saw, Close nestled in my couch of straw.— 'List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great Have frequent need of what they hate; Hence, in their favour oft we see Unscrupled, useful men, like thee. Were I disposed to bid thee live,
What pledge of faith hast thou to give?'
<< The ready fiend, who never yet Hath fail'd to sharpen Denzil's wit, Prompted his lie- His only child
Should rest his pledge.' The baron smiled, And turn'd to me- Thou art his son?'
I bow'd-our fetters were undone.
And we were led to hear apart
A dreadful lesson of his art.
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son,
Had fair Matilda's favour won;
And long since had their union been,
But for her father's bigot spleen,
Whose brute and blindfold party rage
Would, force perforce, her hand engage
To a base kern of Irish earth,
Unknown his lineage and his birth,
Save that a dying ruffian bore
The infant brat to Rokeby door.
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed;
But fair occasion he must find
For such restraint well-meant and kind,
The knight being render'd to his charge
But as a prisoner at large.
« He school'd us in a well-forged tale,
Of scheme the castle walls to scale,
To which was leagued each cavalier,
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear;
That Rokeby, his parole forgot,
Had dealt with us to aid the plot.
Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale
Proffer'd, as witness, to make good,
Even though the forfeit were their blood.
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er
His prisoner's safety Wycliffe swore,
And then-alas! what needs there more?
I knew I should not live to say
The proffer I refused that day;
Ashamed to live, yet loth to die,
I soil'd me with their infamy! »—
<< Poor youth,» said Bertram, « wavering still, Unfit alike for good or ill!
But what fell next?»-« Soon as at large
Was scroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge,
There never yet, on tragic stage,
Was seen so well a painted rage
As Oswald show'd! with loud alarm
He call'd his garrison to arm;
From tower to tower, from post to post,
He hurried as if all were lost;
Consign'd to dungeon and to chain
The good old knight and all his train,
Warn'd each suspected cavalier,
Within his limits, to appear
To-morrow, at the hour of noon,
In the high church of Eglistone. »>—
« Of Eglistone! Even now I pass'd,»
Said Bertram, « as the night closed fast;
Torches and cressets gleam'd around,
I heard the saw and hammer sound,
And I could mark they toil'd to raise
A scaffold, hung with sable baize,
Which the grim headsman's scene display'd,
Block, axe, and saw-dust, ready laid.
Some evil deed will there be done,
Unless Matilda wed his son;-
She loves him not-'t is shrewdly guess'd
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast.
This is a turn of Oswald's skill;
But I may meet, and foil him still!--
How camest thou to thy freedom?»-<«< There
Lies mystery more dark and rare.
In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign'd rage,
A scroll was offer'd by a page,
Who told, a muffled horseman late
Had left it at the castle-gate.
He broke the seal-his cheek show'd change,
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange;
The mimic passion of his eye
Was turn'd to actual agony,
His hand like summer-sapling shook,
Terror and guilt were in his look.
Denzil he judged, in time of need,
Fit counsellor for evil deed,
And thus apart his counsel broke,
While with a ghastly smile he spoke.
«As, in the pageants of the stage,
The dead awake in this wild age,
Mortham-whom all men deem'd decreed
In his own deadly snare to bleed,
Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea,
He train'd to aid in murthering me,—
Mortham has 'scaped; the coward shot
The steed, but harm'd the rider nought.'»>-
Here, with an execration fell,
Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell;
<< Thine own gray head, or bosom dark,»
He mutter'd, «< may be surer mark!»-
Then sate, and sign'd to Edmund, pale
With terror, to resume his tale.
Wycliffe went on :- Mark with what flights Of wilder'd reverie he writes:
<< 'Ruler of Mortham's destiny!
Though dead, thy victim lives to thee.
Once had he all that binds to life,
A lovely child, a lovelier wife;
Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his own
Thou gavest the word, and they are flown.
Mark how he pays thee:-to thy hand
He yields his honours and his land,
One boon premised;-Restore his child!
And, from his native land exiled,
Mortham no more returns, to claim
His lands, his honours, or his name;
Refuse him this, and from the slain
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.'-
<< This billet while the baron read,
His faltering accents show'd his dread;
He press'd his forehead with his palm,
Then took a scornful tone and calm;
'Wild as the winds, as billows wild!
What wot I of his spouse or child?
Hither he brought a joyous dame,
Unknown her lineage or her name;
Her, in some frantic fit, he slew;
The nurse and child in fear withdrew.
Heaven be my witness, wist I where
To find this youth, my kinsman's heir,— (
Unguerdon'd, I would give with joy
The father's arms to fold his boy,
And Mortham's lands and towers resign
To the just heir of Mortham's line.'-
Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear
Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer;—
"Then happy is thy vassal's part,'
He said, 'to ease his patron's heart!
In thine own jailer's watchful care
Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir;
Thy generous wish is fully won,
Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son.'-
<< Up starting with a frenzied look, His clenched hand the baron shook: 'Is hell at work? or dost thou rave, Or darest thou palter with me, slave?
Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's towers
Have racks, of strange and ghastly powers.'
Denzil, who well his safety knew,
Firmly rejoin'd, 'I tell thee true.
Thy racks could give thee but to know
The proofs, which I, untortured, show.—
It chanced upon a winter night,
When early snow made Stanmore white,
That very night, when first of all
Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby-hall;
It was my goodly lot to gain
A reliquary and a chain,
Twisted and chased of massive gold.
-Demand not how the prize I hold!
It was not given, nor lent, nor sold.-
Gilt tablets to the chain were hung,
With letters in the Irish tongue.
I hid my spoil, for there was need
That I should leave the land with speed;
Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear
On mine own person gems so rare.
Small heed I of the tablets took,
But since have spell'd them by the book,
When some sojourn in Eriu's land
Of their wild speech had given command
But darkling was the sense; the phrase
And language those of other days,
Involved of purpose, as to foil
An interloper's prying toil.
The words, but not the sense, I knew,
Till fortune gave the guiding clue.
<<'Three days since, was that clue reveal'd, · In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd,
And heard at full when Rokeby's maid
Her uncle's history display'd;
And now I can interpret well;
Each syllable the tablets tell.
Mark then: Fair Edith was the joy
Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy,
But from her sire and country fled,
In secret Mortham's lord to wed.
O'Neale, his first resentment o'er,
Dispatch'd his son to Greta's shore,
Enjoining he should make him known
(Until his farther will were shown),
To Edith, but to her alone.
What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell, Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so well.
«O'Neale it was, who, in despair,
Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir;
He bred him in their nurture wild,
And call'd him murder'd Connal's child.
Soon died the nurse; the clan believed
What from their chieftain they received.
His purpose was, that ne'er again
The boy should cross the Irish main,
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy
The woods and wastes of Clandeboy.
Then on the land wild troubles came,
And stronger chieftains urged a claim,
And wrested from the old man's hands
His native towers, his father's lands.
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