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And, skirting high the valley's ridge,
They cross'd by Greta's ancient bridge,
Descending where her waters wind
Free for a space and unconfined,

As, 'scaped from Brignal's dark-wood glen,
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den.
There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound,
Raised by that legion long renown'd,
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim,
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, (3)
« Stern sons of war!» sad Wilfrid sigh'd,
Behold the boast of Roman pride!
What now of all your toils are known?
A grassy trench, a broken stone!»-
This to himself, for moral strain
To Bertram were address'd in vain.

VI.

Of different mood, a deeper sigh
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high (4)
Were northward in the dawning seen
To rear them o'er the thicket green.
O then, though Spenser's self had stray'd
Beside him through the lovely glade,
Lending his rich luxuriant glow
Of fancy, all its charms to show,
Pointing the stream rejoicing free,
As captive set at liberty,

Flashing her sparkling waves abroad,
And clamouring joyful on her road;
Pointing where, up the sunny banks,
The trees retire in scatter'd ranks,
Save where, advanced before the rest,
On knoll or hillock rears his crest,
Lonely and huge, the giant oak-
As champions, when their band is broke,
Stand forth to guard the rearward post,
The bulwark of the scatter'd host-
All this, and more, might Spenser say,
Yet waste in vain his magic lay,
While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower,
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower.

The

open

VIL

vale is soon past o'er,
Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more;
Sinking mid Greta's thickets deep,
A wild and darker course they keep,
A stern and lone, yet lovely road,

As e'er the foot of minstrel trode! (5)
Broad shadows o'er their passage fell,
Deeper and narrower grew the dell:

It seem'd some mountain, rent and riven,
A channel for the stream had given,
So high the cliffs of limestone gray
Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way,
Yielding, along their rugged base,
A flinty footpath's niggard space,

Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and wave,
May hear the headlong torrent rave,
And like a steed in frantic fit,

That flings the froth from curb and bit,
May view her chafe her waves to spray,
O'er every rock that bars her way,
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride,

Thick as the schemes of human pride,

That down life's current drive amain, As frail, as frothy, and as vain!

VIII.

The cliffs, that rear the haughty head
High o'er the river's darksome bed,
Were now all naked, wild, and gray,
Now waving all with green-wood spray;
Here trees to every crevice clung,
And o'er the dell their branches hung;
And there, all splinter'd and uneven,
The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven.
Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast,
And wreathed its garland round their crest,
Or from the spires bade loosely flare
Its tendrils in the middle air,

As pennons wont to wave of old,
O'er the high feast of baron bold,
When revell'd loud the feudal rout,
And the arch'd halls return'd their shout.
Such and more wild is Greta's roar,
And such the echoes from her shore,
And so the ivied banner's gleam
Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream.

IX.

Now from the stream the rocks recede,
But leave between no sunny mead,
No, nor the spot of pebbly sand,
Oft found by such a mountain strand,
Forming such warm and dry retreat,
As fancy deems the lonely seat,
Where hermit, wandering from his cell,
His rosary might love to tell.

But here, 'twixt rock and river grew

A dismal grove of sable yew,
With whose sad tints were mingled scen
The blighted fir's sepulchral green,
Seem'd that the trees their shadows cast,
The earth that nourish'd them to blast,
For never knew that swarthy grove
The verdant hue that fairies love;
Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower,
Arose within its baleful bower;
The dank and sable earth receives
Its only carpet from the leaves,

That, from the withering branches cast,
Bestrew'd the ground with every blast.
Though now the sun was o'er the hill,
In this dark spot 't was twilight still,
Save that on Greta's farther side

Some straggling beams through copse-wood glide.
And wild and savage contrast made
That dingle's deep and funeral shade,
With the bright tints of early day,

Which, glimmering through the ivy-spray,
On the opposing summit lay.

X.

The lated peasant shunn'd the dell,
For superstition wont to tell
Of many a grisly sound and sight,
Scaring its path at dead of night.
When Christmas logs blaze high and wide,
Such wonders speed the festal tide,

While curiosity and fear,
Pleasure and pain, sit crouching near,
Till childhood's cheek no longer glows,
And village maidens lose the rose.
The thrilling interest rises higher,
The circle closes nigh and nigher,

And shuddering glance is cast behind,
As louder moans the wintry wind.
Believe, that fitting scene was laid
For such wild tales in Mortham's glade;
For who had seen on Greta's side,
By that dim light fierce Bertram stride,
In such a spot, at such an hour,-
If touch'd by superstition's power,
Might well have deem'd that hell had given
A murderer's ghost to upper heaven,
While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to glide
Like his pale victim by his side.

XI.

Nor think to village swains alone
Are these unearthly terrors known;
For not to rank nor sex confined
Is this vain ague of the mind.
Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard,
'Gainst faith, and love, and pity barr'd,
Have quaked like aspen-leaves in May,
Beneath its universal sway.
Bertram had listed many a tale
Of wonder in his native dale,
That in his secret soul retain'd

The credence they in childhood gain'd;
Nor less his wild and venturous youth
Believed in every legend's truth,
Learn'd when beneath the tropic gale
Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail,
And the broad Indian moon her light
Pour'd on the watch of middle night,
When seamen love to hear and tell
Of portent, prodigy, and spell;

What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, (6)
How whistle rash bids tempests roar; (7)
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite,
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light; (8)
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form
Shoots like a meteor through the storm,
When the dark scud comes driving hard,
And lower'd is every topsail-yard,
And canvas, wove in earthly looms,
No more to brave the storm presumes!
Then, 'mid the war of sea and sky,
Top and top-gallant hoisted high,
Full-spread and crowded every sail,
The demon-frigate (9) braves the gale;
And well the doom'd spectators know,
The harbinger of wreck and woe.

XII.

Then too were told, in stifled tone,
Marvels and omens all their own;
How, by some desert isle or key, (10)
Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty,
Or where the savage pirate's mood
Repaid it home in deeds of blood,
Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear
Appall'd the listening buccaneer,

Whose light-arm'd shallop anchor'd lay
In ambush by the lonely bay.

The groan of grief, the shriek of pain,
Ring from the moon-light groves of cane;
The fierce adventurer's heart they scare,
Who wearies memory for a prayer,
Curses the roadstead, and with gale
Of early morning lifts the sail,
To give, in thirst of blood and prey,
A legend for another bay.

XIII.

Thus, as a man, a youth, a child,
Train'd in the mystic and the wild,
With this on Bertram's soul at times
Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes;
Such to his troubled soul their form,
As the pale death-ship to the storm,
And such their omen dim and dread,
As shrieks and voices of the dead.
That pang, whose transitory force
Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse;
That pang, perchance, his bosom press'd,
As Wilfrid sudden he address'd

« Wilfrid, this glen is never trod
Until the sun rides high abroad;
Yet twice have I beheld to-day

A form that seem'd to dog our way;
Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee,
And shroud itself by cliff or tree;
How think'st thou?-is our path waylaid,
Or hath thy sire my trust betray'd?
If so »>-Ere, starting from his dream,
That turn'd upon a gentler theme,
Wilfrid had roused him to reply,
Bertram sprung forward shouting high,
Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand'
And forth he darted, sword in hand.

XIV.

As bursts the levia in its wrath,

He shot him down the sounding path:
Rock, wood, and stream, rung wildly out.
To his loud step and savage shout.
Seems 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;
Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings,
Now trusts his weight to ivy-strings;
Now, like the wild goat, must he dare
An unsupported leap in air

Hid in the shrubby rain-course now,
You mark him by the crashing bough,
And by his corslet's sullen clank,
And by the stones spurn'd 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.

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XV.

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 holds its headlong way, Crashing o'er rock and copse-wood 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 unharm'd he stands!

XVI.

Wilfrid a safer path pursued,
At intervals where, roughly hew'd,
Rude steps ascending from the dell
Reader'd the cliffs accessible.
By circuit slow he thus attain'd
The height that Risingham had gain'd,
And when he issued from the wood,
Before the gate of Mortham stood. (11)
I was a fair scene! the sun-beam 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
Roll'd 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.

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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 massy monument,

Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise,

With many a scutcheon and device:
There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom,
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb.

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« It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost! Behind this tomb,» he said, «<'t was lostThis tomb, where oft I deem'd, lies stored Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. T is true, the aged servants said Here his lamented wife is laid; But weightier reasons may be guess'd 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 sail'd with Morgan's crew, Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake Of Raleigh, Forbisher, and Drake; Adventurous hearts! who barter'd 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; (12) Sure stewards they, if fitting spell Their service to the task compel. Lacks there such charuel !—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.»>—

XIX.

Wilfrid, who scorn'd 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 sought to know
The apparition's form and show.-
The power within the guilty breast,
Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd,
That unsubdued and lurking lies
To take the felon by surprise, (13)
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.
«T was Mortham's form, from foot to head!

His morion, with the plume of red,

His shape, his mien-'t was 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!-1!-I had forgot,

Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot.

*

But it is spoken-nor will I
Deed done, or spoken word, deny.
I slew him, I for thankless pride;

'T was by this hand that Mortham died.»—

XX.

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart,
Averse to every active part,

But most averse to martial broil,

From danger shrunk, and turn'd 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 wax'd'strong.
Not his the nerves that could sustain,
Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain;
But when that spark blazed forth to flame,
He rose superior to his frame.

And now it came, that generous mood;
And, in full current of his blood,
On Bertram he laid desperate hand,
Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand.

<< Should every fiend to whom thou 'rt sold,
Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold.-
Arouse there, ho! take spear and sword!
Attach the murderer of
your lord!»-

XXI.

A moment, fix'd as by a spell,
Stood Bertram-it seem'd miracle,
That one so feeble, soft, and tame,
Set grasp on warlike Risingham.
But when he felt a feeble stroke,
The fiend within the ruffian woke!

To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand,
To dash him headlong on the sand,
Was but one moment's work,-one more
Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore;
But, in the instant it arose,

To end his life, his love, his woes,
A warlike form, that mark'd the scene,
Presents his rapier sheath'd between,
Parries the fast-descending blow,
And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe;
Nor then unscabbarded his brand,
But sternly pointing with his hand,
With monarch's voice forbade the fight,
And motion'd Bertram from his sight.

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Mute and uncertain, and amazed,

As on a vision, Bertram gazed!

'Twas Mortham's bearing bold and high,
His sinewy frame, his falcon eye,

His look and accent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,

His war-bleach'd locks-'t was Mortham all.
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear.
His wavering faith received not quite
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite,
But more he fear'd it, if it stood
His lord, in living flesh and blood-

What spectre can the charnel send,
So dreadful as an injured friend?
Then, too, the habit of command,
Used by the leader of the band,
When Risingham, for many a day,
Had march'd and fought beneath his sway,
Tamed him-and, with reverted face,
Backwards he bore his sullen pace,

Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared,
And dark as rated mastiff glared;
But when the tramp of steeds was heard,
Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd.
Nor longer there the warrior stood,
Retiring eastward through the wood;
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,

« Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.»

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Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear,
Hinting he knew not what of fear,
When nearer came the coursers' tread,
And, with his father at their head,
Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power
Rein'd up their steeds before the tower.

« Whence these pale looks, my son ?» he said: « Where's Bertram? why that naked blade?» Wilfrid ambiguously replied

(For Mortham's charge his honour tied),

« Bertram is gone-the villain's word
Avouch'd him murderer of his lord!
Even now we fought-but, when your tread
Announced you nigh, the felon fled.»—
In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear

A guilty hope, a guilty fear;

On his pale brow the dew-drop broke,
And his lip quiver'd as he spoke.

XXIV.

« A murderer!-Philip Mortham died
Amid the battle's wildest tide.
Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you!
Yet grant such strange confession true,
Pursuit were vain-let him fly far-
Justice must sleep in civil war. »—
A gallant youth rode near his side,
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried;
That morn, an embassy of weight
He brought to Barnard's castle gate,
And follow'd now in Wycliffe's train,
An answer for his lord to gain.

His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck,
Chafed not against the curb more high
Than he at Oswald's cold reply;
He bit his lip, implored his saint,
(His the old faith)—then burst restraint.

XXV.

« Yes! I beheld his bloody fall,
By that base traitor's dastard ball,
Just when I thought to measure sword,
Presumptuous hope! with Mortham's lord.
And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew
His leader generous, brave, and true?
Escape! while on the dew you trace
The marks of his gigantic pace?

No! ere the sun that dew shall dry,
False Risingham shall yield or die.--
Ring out the castle larum-bell!
Arouse the peasants with the knell!
Meantime, disperse-ride, gallants, ride!
Beset the wood on every side,
But if among you one there be,
That honours Mortham's memory,
Let him dismount and follow me!
Else on your crests sit fear and shame,
And foul suspicion dog your name !»>

XXVI.

Instant to earth young REDMOND sprung;
Instant on earth the harness rung
Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band,
Who waited not their lord's command.
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew,
His mantle from his shoulder threw,
His pistols in his belt he placed,

The green-wood gain'd, the footsteps traced,
Shouted like buntsman to his hounds,

To cover, hark!»-and in he bounds.
Searce heard was Oswald's anxious cry,
Suspicion! yes-pursue him-fly-
But venture not, in useless strife,
On ruffian desperate of his life.
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead!
Five hundred nobles for his head.»-

XXVII.

The horsemen gallopp'd, to make good
Each
pass that issued from the wood,
Loud from the thickets rung the shout
Of Redmond and his eager route;
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire,
And envying Redmond's martial fire,
And emulous of fame.-But where
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir?
He, bound by honour, law, and faith,
Avenger of his kinsman's death ?—
Leaning against the elmine-tree,

With drooping head and slacken'd knee,
And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd hands,
of soul he stands!

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agony

His downcast eye on earth is bent,

His soul to every sound is lent,

For in each shout that cleaves the air, May ring discovery and despair.

XXVIII.

What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd
The morning sun on Mortham's glade?
All seems in giddy round to ride,
Like objects on a stormy tide,
Seen eddying by the moon-light dim,
Imperfectly to sink and swim.
What 'vail'd 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, (14)
Had been his choice, could such a doom
Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb!

Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear
To each surmise of hope or fear,
Murmur'd among the rustics round,
Who gather'd at the larum sound.
He dare 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'erpast that dreadful space,
Back straggling came the scatter'd chase;
Jaded and weary, horse and man,
Return'd the troopers, one by one.
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say,
All trace was lost of Bertram's way,
Though Redmond still, up Brigual wood,
The hopeless quest in vain pursued.-
O 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.

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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 mood
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 command—
Accept at least-thy friendly hand;
His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd,
Unwilling takes his proffer'd 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.

of light

« Scarce wert thou gone, when peep
Brought genuine news of Marston's fight.
Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide,
And conquest bless'd 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! (15)

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