Mortham must never see the fool,
That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool!
Yet less from thirst of sordid gain,
Than to avenge supposed disdain.
Say, Bertram rues his fault ;-a word,
Till now, from Bertram never heard:
Say, too, that Mortham's lord he prays
To think but on their former days,'
On Quariana's beach and rock,
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock,
On Darien's sands and deadly dew,
And on the dart Tlatzeca threw ;-
Perchance my patron yet may hear
More than may grace his comrade's bier.
My soul hath felt a secret weight,
A warning of approaching fate:
A priest had said, Return, repent!
As well to bid that rock be rent.
Firm as that flint, I face mine end;
My heart may burst, but cannot bend.

XXI.

« The dawning of my youth, with awe
And prophecy, the dalesmen saw;
For over Redesdale it came,
As bodeful as their beacon-flame.
Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine,
When, challenging the clans of Tyne,
To bring their best my brand to prove,
O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove; (1)
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town,
Held champion meet to take it down.
My noontide India may declare;
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air!
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly
Her natives, from mine angry eye.
Panama's maids shall long look pale
When Risingham inspires the tale;
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame
The froward child with Bertram's name.
And now, my race of terror run,
Mine be the eve of tropic sun!
No pale gradations quench his ray,
No twilight dews his wrath allay;
With disk like battle-target red,
He rushes to his burning bed,

Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,
Then sinks at once-and all is night.

XXII.

«Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly,
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie
To Richmond, where his troops are laid,
And lead his force to Redmond's aid.
Say, till he reaches Eglistone,

A friend will watch to guard his son.
Now, fare thee well; for night draws on,
And I would rest me here alone.»-
Despite his ill-dissembled fear,
There swam in Edmund's eye a tear;
A tribute to the courage high,
Which stoop'd not in extremity,
But strove, irregularly great,
To triumph o'er approaching fate!
Bertram beheld the dew-drop start,
It almost touch'd his iron heart:

« I did not think there lived,» he said,

« One who would tear for Bertram shed.»>—
He loosen'd then his baldric's hold,
A buckle broad of massive gold;-
« Of all the spoil that paid his pains,
But this with Risingham remains;
And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take,
And wear it long for Bertram's sake.
Once more to Mortham speed amain;,
Farewell! and turn thee not again.»--

XXIII.

The night has yielded to the morn,
And far the hours of prime are worn.
Oswald, who, since the dawn of day,
Had cursed his messenger's delay,
Impatient question'd now his train,
<< Was Denzil's son return'd again?»→→
It chanced there answer'd of the crew,
A menial, who young Edmund knew:
«No son of Denzil this,» he said;

« A peasant boy from Winston glade,
For song and minstrelsy renown'd,
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round.>>-
-« Not Denzil's son!-from Winston vale!-
Then it was false, that specious tale;
Or, worse he hath dispatch'd the youth
To show to Mortham's lord its truth.
Fool that I was!-but 't is too late;—
This is the very turn of fate!-2
The tale, or true or false, relies
On Denzil's evidence:-He dies!-
-Ho! provost-marshal! instantly
Lead Denzil to the gallows tree!
Allow him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!
Then let his gory head appal
Marauders from the castle-wall.
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done,
With best dispatch to Eglistone.-
-Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight
Attend me at the castle-gate.»-

XXIV.

<< Alas!» the old domestic said, And shook his venerable head,

« Alas! my lord! full ill to-day

May my young master brook the way!
The leech has spoke with grave alarm,
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm,

Of sorrow lurking at the heart,
That mars and lets his healing art.»
-Tush, tell not me!-Romantic boys
Pine themselves sick for airy toys.

I will find cure for Wilfrid soon;
Bid him for Eglistone be boune,
And quick-I hear the dull death-drum
Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come.»-
He paused with scornful smile, and then
Resumed his train of thought agen.
«Now comes my fortune's crisis near!
Entreaty boots not-instant fear,
Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride,
Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride.
But when she sees the scaffold placed,
With axe and block and headsman graced ;

And when she deems, that to deny
Dooms Redmond and her sire to die,
She must give way.-Then, were the line
Of Rokeby once combined with mine,
I gain the weather-gage of fate!
If Mortham come, he comes too late,
While I, allied thus and prepared,
Bid him defiance to his beard.-
-If she prove stubborn, shall I dare
To drop the axe?-soft! pause we there.
Mortham still lives-yon youth may tell
His tale-and Fairfax loves him well;-
Else, wherefore should I now delay
this Redmond from my way?
To sweep

But she to piety perforce.

Must yield. Without there! Sound to horse.»—

XXV.

'T was bustle in the court below,

<< Mount, and march forward!»-forth they go; Steeds neigh and trample all around,

Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets sound.—
Just then was sung his parting hymn;
And Denzil turn'd his eye-balls dim.
And scarcely conscious what he sees,
Follows the horsemen down the Tees,
And scarcely conscious what he hears,
The trumpets tingle in his ears.

O'er the long bridge they 're sweeping now,
The van is hid by green-wood bough;,
But ere the rearward had pass'd o'er,
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more!

One stroke, upon the castle bell,
To Oswald rung his dying knell.

XXVI.

O for that pencil, erst profuse
Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues,

That traced, of old, in Woodstock bower,
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower,
And bodied forth the tourney high,
Held for the hand of Emily!
Then might I paint the tumult broad,
That to the crowded abbey flow'd,
And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound,
Into the church's ample bound!
Then might I show each varying mien,
Exulting, woeful, or serene;
Indifference with his idiot stare,
And sympathy with anxious air;
Paint the dejected cavalier,

Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer;
And his proud foe, whose formal eye
Claim'd conquest now and mastery;
And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel,
And loudest shouts when lowest lie
Exalted, worth, and station high.
Yet what may such a wish avail?
'Tis mine to tell an onward tale,
Hurrying, as best I can, along,
The hearers and the hasty soug ;-
Like traveller when approaching home,
Who sees the shades of evening come,
And must not now his course delay,
Or chuse the fair, but winding way;

Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, Where o'er his head the wildings bend, To bless the breeze that cools his brow, Or snatch a blossom from the bough

XXVII.

The reverend pile lay wild and waste,
Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced.
Through storied lattices no more
In soften'd light the sun-beams pour,
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich
Of shrine, and monument, and niche.
The civil fury of the time

Made sport of sacrilegious crime;
For dark Fanaticism rent

Altar, and screen, and ornament,

And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh.
And now was seen unwonted sight,

In holy walls, a scaffold dight!
Where once the priest, of grace divine
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign,

There stood the block display'd, and there
The headsman grim his hatchet bare ;
And for the word of Hope and Faith,
Resounded loud a doom of death.
Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was heard,
And ethoed thrice the herald's word,
Dooming, for breach of martial laws,
And treason to the Commons' cause,
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale
To stoop their heads to block and steel.
The trumpets flourish'd high and shrill,
Then was a silence dead and still;
And silent prayers to heaven were cast,
And stifling sobs were bursting fast,
Till from the crowd begun to rise
Murmurs of sorrow or surprise,
And from the distant aisles there came
Deep-mutter'd threats, with Wycliffe's name.

XXVIII.

But Oswald, guarded by his band,
Powerful in evil, waved his hand,
And bade Sedition's voice be dead,
On peril of the murmurer's head.

Then first his glance sought Rokeby's knight;
Who gazed on the tremendous sight,
As calm as if he came a guest
To kindred baron's feudal feast,
As calm as if that trumpet-call
Were summons to the banner'd hall;
Firm in his loyalty he stood,

And prompt to seal it with his blood.
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh,-
He durst not cope with Rokeby's eye!-
And said, with low and faltering breath,
« Thou know'st the terms of life and death,»-

The knight then turn'd, and sternly smiled;

«The maiden is mine only child,

Yet shall my blessing leave her head,

If with a traitor's son she wed.»

Then Redmond spoke; «The life of one
Might thy malignity,atone.

On me be flung a double guilt!

Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt !»

32

Wycliffe had listen'd to his suit,
But dread prevail'd, and he was mute.
XXIX.

And now he pours his choice of fear
In secret on Matilda's ear;

« An union form'd with me and mine
Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line.
Consent, and all this dread array
Like morning dream shall pass away;
Refuse, and, by my duty press'd,

I give the word-thou know'st the rest. »>
Matilda, still and motionless,

With terror heard the dread address,
Pale as the sheeted maid who dies
To hopeless love a sacrifice;

Then wrung her hands in agony,
And round her cast bewilder'd eye,
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now
On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow.
She veil'd her face, and, with a voice
Scarce audible,—« I make my choice!
Spare but their lives!-for aught beside,
Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide.
He once was generous!»-As she spoke,
Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke:
« Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late?--
Why upon Basil rest thy weight?
Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand?—
Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand;
Thank her with raptures, simple boy!
Should tears and trembling speak thy joy?»—
O hush, my sire! to pray'r and tear

Of mine thou hast refused thine ear;
But now the awful hour draws on,

When truth must speak in loftier tone!»>

XXX.

He took Matilda's hand :-« Dear maid!
Couldst thou so injure me,» he said,
« Of thy poor friend so basely deem,
As blend him with this barbarous scheme?
Alas! my efforts, made in vain,
Might well have saved this added pain.
But now, bear witness earth and heaven,
That ne'er was hope to mortal given,
So twisted with the strings of life,
As this-to call Matilda wife!

I bid it now for ever part,

And with the effort bursts my heart.»>-
His feeble frame was worn so low,
With wounds, with watching, and with woe,
That nature could no more sustain
The agony of mental pain.

He kneel'd-his lip her hand had press'd,-
Just then he felt the stern arrest;
Lower and lower sunk his head,-
They raised him,—but the life was fled!
Then first alarm'd, his sire and train
Tried
every aid, but tried in vain.
The soul, too soft its ills to bear,
Had left our mortal hemisphere,
And sought, in better world, the meed
To blameless life by Heaven decreed.
XXXL.

The wretched sirë beheld, aghast,
With Wilfrid all his projects past.

All turn'd and center'd on his son,
On Wilfrid all-and he was gone.
« And I am childless now,» he said,

« Childless, through that relentless maid!

A lifetime's arts, in vain essay'd,
Are bursting on their artist's head!-
Here lies my Wilfrid dead-and there
Comes hated Mortham for his heir,
Eager to knit in happy band
With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand.
And shall their triumph soar o'er all
The schemes deep-laid to work their fall?
No!-deeds which prudence might not dare,
Appal not vengeance and despair.
The murderess weeps upon his bier
I'll change to real that feigned tear!
They all shall share destruction's shock:-
Ho! lead the captives to the block !»-
But ill his provost could divine
His feelings, and forbore the sign.
«Slave! to the block!-or I, or they,
Shall face the judgment-seat this day!»>-

XXXII.

The outmost crowd have heard a sound,
Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground;
Nearer it came, and yet more near,—
The very deaths-men paused to hear.
'Tis in the church-yard now-the tread
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead!
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone,
Return the tramp in varied tone.
All eyes upon the gate-way hung,
When through the Gothic arch there sprung
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed—(2)
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed.
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd,
The vaults unwonted clang return'd!—
One instant's glance around he threw,
From saddle-bow his pistol drew.
Grimly determined was his look!
His charger with the spurs he strook-
All scatter'd backward as he came,
For all knew Bertram Risingham!
Three bounds that noble courser gave;
The first has reach'd the central nave,
The second clear'd the chancel wide,
The third-he was at Wycliffe's side.
Full levell'd at the baron's head,
Rung the report-the bullet sped-
And to his long account, and last,
Without a groan dark Oswald, past!
All was so quick, that it might seem
A flash of lightning, or a dream.

XXXIII.
While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels;
But flounder'd on the pavement floor
The steed, and down the rider bore,
And bursting in the headlong sway,
The faithless saddle-girths gave way.
'T was while he toil'd him to be freed,
And with the rein to raise the steed,
That from amazement's iron trance
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once.

Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ;

A score of pikes, with each a wound,
Bore down and pinn'd him to the ground;
But still his struggling force he rears,
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears;
Thrice from assailants shook him free,
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee.
By tenfold odds oppress'd at length,
Despite his struggles and his strength,
He took a hundred mortal wounds,
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds;
And when he died, his parting groan
Had more of laughter than of moan!
-They gazed, as when a lion dies,
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes,`.
But bend their weapons on the slain,
Lest the grim king should rouse again!--
Then blow and insult some renew'd,
And from the trunk the head had hew'd,
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ;

A mantle o'er the corse he laid:

<«< Fell as he was in act and mind,

He left no bolder heart behind :
Then give him, for a soldier meet,
A soldier's cloak for winding-sheet.»—

XXXIV.

No more of death and dying pang,
No more of trump and bugle clang,
Though through the sounding woods there come
Banner and bugle, trump and drum.

Arm'd with such powers as well had freed

Young Redmond at his utmost need,
And back'd with such a band of horse
As might less ample powers enforce;
Possess'd of every proof and sign
That gave an heir to Mortham's line,
And yielded to a father's arms
An image of his Edith's charms,-
Mortham is come, to hear and see
Of this strange morn the history.
What saw he ?-not the church's floor,
Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with gore.
What heard he?—not the clamorous crowd,
That shout their gratulations loud;
Redmond he saw and heard alone,
Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, « My son, my son!»-

་

XXXV.

This chanced upon a summer morn,
When yellow waved the heavy corn;
But when brown August o'er the land
Call'd forth the reaper's busy band,
A gladsome sight the sylvan road
From Eglistone to Mortham show'd.
Awhile the hardy rustic leaves

The task to bind and pile the sheaves,
And maids their sickles fling aside,
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride,
And childhood's wondering group draws near,
And from the gleaner's hand the ear
Drops, while she folds them for a prayer
And blessing on the lovely pair.
T was then the Maid of Rokeby gave
Her plighted troth to Redmond brave;

And Teesdale can remember yet,

How Fate to Virtue paid her debt,
And, for their troubles, bade them prove
and love.
A lengthen'd life of peace

Time and tide had thus their sway,
Yielding, like an April day,
Smiling noon for sullen morrow,
Years of joy for hours of sorrow!

NOTES.

CANTO I.

Note 1. Stanza i.

On Barnard's towers, and Tees's stream, etc.

<< Barnard Castle,» saith old Leland, «< standeth stately upon Tees.» It is founded upon a very high bank, and its ruins impend over the river, including within the area a circuit of six acres and upwards. This once magnificent fortress derives its name from its founder, Barnard Baliol, the ancestor of the short and unfortunate dynasty of that name, which succeeded to the Scottish throne under the patronage of Edward I. and Edward III. Baliol's tower, afterwards mentioned in the poem, is a round tower of great size, situated at the western extremity of the building. It bears marks of great antiquity, and was remarkable for the curious construction of its vaulted roof, which has been lately greatly injured by the operations of some persons to whom the tower has been leased for the purpose of making patent shot! The prospect from the top of Baliol's tower commands a rich and magnificent view of the wooded valley of the Tees.

Barnard Castle often changed masters during the middle ages. Upon the forfeiture of the unfortunate John Baliol, the first king of Scotland of that family, Edward I. seized this fortress among the other English estates of his refractory vassal. It was afterwards vested in the Beauchamps of Warwick, and in the Staffords of Buckingham, and was also sometimes in the possession of the Bishops of Durham, and sometimes in that of the crown. Richard III. is said to have enlarged and strengthened its fortifications, and to have made it for some time his principal residence, for the purpose of bridling and suppressing the Lancastrian faction in the northern counties. From the Staffords, Barnard Castle passed, probably by marriage, into the possession of the powerful Nevilles, Earls of Westmoreland, and belonged to the last representative of that family when he engaged with the Earl of Northumberland in the illconcerted insurrection of the twelfth of Queen Elizabeth. Upon this occasion, however, Sir George Bowes of Sheatlam, who held great possessions in the neighbourhood, anticipated the two insurgent earls, by seizing upon and garrisoning Barnard Castle, which he held out for ten days against all their forces, and then surrendered it upon honourable terms. See Sadler's State Papers, vol. II, p. 330. In a ballad, contained in Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. I, the siege is thus commemorated: