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THE hunting tribes of air and earth Respect the brethren of their birth; Nature, who loves the claim of kind, Less cruel chase to each assign'd. The falcon, poised on soaring wing, Watches the wild-duck by the spring; The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair, The greyhound presses on the hare; The eagle pounces on the lamb, The wolf devours the fleecy dam; Even tiger fell, and sullen bear, Their likeness and their lineage spare. Man, only, mars kind Nature's plan, And turns the fierce pursuit on man; Plying war's desultory trade, Incursion, flight, and ambuscade, Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son, At first the bloody game begun.

II.

The Indian, prowling for his prey,
Who hears the settlers track his way, (1)
And knows in distant forest far
Camp his red brethren of the war;
He, when each double and disguise
To baffle the pursuit he tries,

Low crouching now his head to hide,
Where swampy streams through rushes glide,
Now covering with the wither'd leaves
The foot-prints which the dew receives;
He, skill'd in every sylvan guile,
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile,
As Risingham, when on the wind
Arose the loud pursuit behind.
In Redesdale his youth had heard
Each art her wily dalesman dared, (2)
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high,
To. bugle rung and blood-hound's cry,
Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear,
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear;
And well his venturous life had proved
The lessons that his childhood loved.

III.

Oft had he shown, in climes afar,
Each attribute of roving war;
The sharpen'd ear, the piercing eye,
The quick resolve in danger nigh;
The speed that, in the flight or chase,
Outstripp'd the Carib's rapid race;

The steady brain, the sinewy limb,
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim;
The iron frame, inured to bear
Each dire inclemency of air,
Nor less confirm'd to undergo

Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe.
These arts he proved, his life to save,
In peril oft by land and wave,
On Arawaca's desert shore,

Or where La Plata's billows roar,
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain
Track'd the marauder's steps in vain.
These arts, in Indian warfare tried,
Must save him now by Greta's side.

IV.

"T was then, in hour of utmost need,
He proved his courage, art, and speed.
Now slow he stalk'd with stealthy pace,
Now started forth in rapid race,

Oft doubling back in mazy train,
To blind the trace the dews retain;

Now clombe the rocks projecting high,
To baffle the pursuer's eye,

Now sought the stream, whose brawling sound
The echo of his footsteps drown'd.
But if the forest verge he nears,

There trample steeds and glimmer spears;
If deeper down the copse he drew,
He heard the rangers' loud halloo,
Beating each cover while they came,
As if to start the sylvan game.
'T was then-like tiger close beset
At every pass with toil and net,
Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare,
By clashing arms and torches' flare,
Who meditates, with furious bound,
To burst on hunter, horse, and hound,-
'T was then that Bertram's soul arose,
Prompting to rush upon his foes:
But as that crouching tiger, cow'd
By brandish'd steel and shouting crowd,
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud,
Bertram suspends his purpose stern,
And couches in the brake and fern,
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.(3)

V.

Then Bertram might the bearing trace
Of the bold youth who led the chase,
Who paused to list for every sound,
Climb'd every height to look around,
Then rushing on with naked sword,
Each dingle's bosky depths explored.
"T was Redmond-by the azure eye;
'Twas Redmond-by the locks that fly
Disorder'd from his glowing cheek;
Mien, face, and form, young Redmond speak
A form more active, light, and strong,
Ne'er shot the ranks of war along;
The modest, yet the manly mien,
Might grace the court of maiden queen;
A face more fair you well might find,
For Redmond's knew the sun and wind,

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Nor boasted, from their tinge when free,

The charm of regularity;

But every feature had the power
To aid the expression of the hour:
Whether gay wit, and humour sly,
Danced laughing in his fight-blue eye;
Or bended brow, and glance of fire,
And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire;
Or soft and sadden'd glances show
Her ready sympathy with woe;
Or in that wayward mood of mind,
When various feelings are combined,
When joy and sorrow mingle near,

And hopes bright wings are check'd by fear,
And rising doubts keep transport down,

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Well Risingham young Redmond knew;
And much he marvell'd that the crew,
Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead,
Were by that Mortham's foemen led;
For never felt his soul the woe,
That wails a generous foeman low,
Far less that sense of justice strong,
That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong.
But small his leisure now to pause:
Redmond is first, whate'er the cause,
And twice that Redmond came so near,
Where Bertram couch'd like hunted deer,
The very boughs his steps displace,
Rustled against the ruffian's face,
Who, desperate, twice prepared to start,
And plunge his dagger in his heart!
But Redmond turnd a different way,
And the bent boughs resumed their sway,
And Bertram held it wise, unseen,
Deeper to plunge in coppice green.
Thus, circled in his coil, the snake,
When roving hunters beat the brake,
Watches with red and glistening eye,
Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh,
With forked tongue and venom'd fang
Instant to dart the deadly pang;
But if the intruders turn aside,
Away his coils unfolded glide,
And through the deep savannah wind,
Some undisturb'd retreat to find.

VII.

But Bertram, as he backward drew,
And heard the loud pursuit renew,
And Redmond's hollo on the wind,
Oft mutter'd in his savage mind-
Redmond O'Neale! were thou and I
Alone this day's event to try,
With not a second here to see,
But the gray cliff and oaken-tree,-
That voice of thine, that shouts so loud,
Should ne'er repeat its summons proud!
No nor e'er try its melting power
Again in maiden's summer bower.»>—

Eluded, now behind him die,

Faint and more faint, each hostile cry;
He stands in Scargill wood alone,
Nor hears he now a harsher tone
Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry,
Or Greta's sound that murmurs by;
And on the dale, so lone and wild,
The summer sun in quiet smiled.

VIII.

He listen'd long with anxious heart,
Ear bent to hear, and foot to start,
And, while his stretch'd attention glows,
Refused his weary frame repose.

'T was silence all-he laid him down,
Where purple heath profusely strown,
And throatwort with its azure bell, (4)
And moss and thyme his cushion swell.
There, spent with toil, he listless eyed
The course of Greta's playful tide,
Beneath her banks now eddying dun,
Now brightly gleaming to the sun,
As, dancing over rock and stone,
In yellow light her currents shone,
Matching in hue the favourite gem
Of Albyn's mountain-diadem.
Then, tired to watch the current's play,
He turn'd his weary eyes away,

To where the bank opposing show'd

Its huge square cliffs through shaggy wood.
One, prominent above the rest,

Rear'd to the sun its pale gray breast;
Around its broken summit grew
The hazel rude, and sable yew;
A thousand varied lichens dyed
Its waste and weather-beaten side,
And round its rugged basis lay,
By time or thunder rent away,
Fragments, that, from its frontlet torn,
Were mantled now by verdant thorn.
Such was the scene's wild majesty,
That fill'd stern Bertram's gazing eye.

IX.

In sullen mood he lay reclined,
Revolving, in his stormy mind,
The felon deed, the fruitless guilt,
His patron's blood by treason spilt;
A crime, it seem'd, so dire and dread,
That it had power to wake the dead.
Then pondering on his life betray'd
By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade,
In treacherous purpose to withhold,
So seem'd it, Mortham's promised gold,
A deep and full revenge he vow'd
On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud;
Revenge on Wilfrid-on his sire
Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire!-
If, in such mood as legends say,
And well believed that simple day),
The enemy of man has power
To profit by the evil hour,

Here stood a wretch, prepared to change
His soul's redemption for revenge!(5)
But though his vows, with such a fire
Of earnest and intense desire

For vengeance dark and fell, were made,
As well might reach hell's lowest shade,
No deeper clouds the grove embrown'd,
No nether thunders shook the ground;
The demon knew his vassal's heart,
And spared temptation's needless art.

X.

Oft mingled with the direful theme,
Came Mortham's form-was it a dream?
Or had he seen, in vision true,
That very Mortham whom he slew?
Or had in living flesh appear'd
The only man on earth he fear'd?—
To try the mystic cause intent,

His eyes, that on the cliff were bent,
Counter'd at once a dazzling glance,

Like sun-beam flash'd from sword or lance.
At once he started as for fight,
But not a foeman was in sight;

He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse,
He heard the river's sounding course,

The solitary woodlands lay,

As slumbering in the summer ray.
He gazed, like lion roused, around,
Then sunk again upon the ground.
'Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam,
Glanced sudden from the sparkling stream;
Then plunged him in his gloomy train
Of ill-connected thoughts again,
Until a voice behind him cried,

<< Bertram! well met on Greta side.»><

XI.

Instant his sword was in his hand,
As instant sunk the ready brand;
Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood
To him that issued from the wood:
«Guy Denzil!-is it thou?» he said;
«Do we two meet in Scargill shade!--
Stand back a space!-thy purpose show,
Whether thou comest as friend or foe.
Report hath said that Denzil's name
From Rokeby's band was razed with shame.»-
« A shame I owe that hot O'Neale,

Who told his knight, in peevish zeal,
Of my marauding on the clowns

Of Calverley and Bradford downs. (6)
I reck not. In a war to strive,

Where, save the leaders, nonè can thrive,
Suits ill my mood; and better game
Awaits us both, if thou 'rt the same
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham,

Who watch'd with me in midnight dark,

To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park.

How think'st thou?»-« Speak thy purpose out;

I love not mystery or doubt.»

XII.

« Then list.-Not far there lurk a crew,
Of trusty comrades staunch and true,

Glean'd from both factions-Roundheads, freed
From cant of sermon and of creed;
And cavaliers, whose souls, like mine,
Spurn at the bonds of discipline.
Wiser we judge, by dale and wold,
A warfare of our own to hold,

Than breathe our last on battle-down,
For cloak or surplice, mace or crown.
Our schemes are laid, our purpose set,
A chief and leader lack we yet.-
Thou art a wanderer, it is said,
For Mortham's death thy steps waylaid.
Thy head at price-so say our spies,
Who ranged the valley in disguise.
Join then with us: though wild debate
And wrangling rend our infant state,
Each, to an equal loth to bow,

Will yield to chief renown'd as thou.>>

XIII.

<< Even now,» thought Bertram, « passion-stirr'd,

I call'd on hell, and hell has heard!
What lack I, vengeance to command,
But of staunch comrades such a band!
This Denzil, vow'd to every evil,

Might read a lesson to the devil.
Well, be it so! each knave and fool
Shall serve as my revenge's tool.»>-
Aloud, «I take thy proffer, Guy,
But tell me where thy comrades lie.-
«Not far from hence,» Guy Denzil said;
« Descend and cross the river's bed,
Where rises yonder cliff so gray.»

<< Do thou,» said Bertram, «lead the way.»
Then mutter'd, « It is best make sure;
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure.»>

He follow'd down the steep descent,

Then through the Greta's streams they went, And, when they reach'd the farther shore, They stood the lonely cliff before.

XIV.

With wonder Bertram heard within

The flinty rock a murmur'd din;

But when Guy pull'd the wilding spray

And brambles from its base away,

He saw, appearing to the air,

A little entrance low and square,
Like opening cell of hermit lone,
Dark winding through the living stone.
Ilere enter'd Denzil, Bertram here,
And loud and louder on their ear,
As from the bowels of the earth,
Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth.
Of old, the cavern strait and rude
In slaty rock the peasant hew'd;
And Brignal's woods, and Scargill's, wave
E'en now o'er many a sister cave,(7)
Where, far within the darksome rift,
The wedge and lever ply their thrift.
But war had silenced rural trade,
And the deserted mine was made
The banquet-hall, and fortress too,
Of Denzil and his desperate crew.
There Guilt his anxious revel kept;
There on his sordid pallet slept
Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drain'd
Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd:
Regret was there, his eve still cast
With vain repining on the past;
Among the feasters waited near,
Sorrow, and unrepentant Fear,

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greet

Behold the group by the pale lamp,
That struggles with the earthy damp.
By what strange features Vice hath known
To single out and mark her own!
Yet some there are, whose brows retain
Less deeply stamp'd her brand and stain.
See you pale stripling! when a boy,
A mother's pride, a father's joy!

Now, gainst the vault's rude walls reclined,
An early image fills his mind:

The cottage, once his sire's, he sees,
Embower'd upon the banks of Tees;

He views sweet Winton's woodland scene,

And shares the dance on Gainford-green.
A tear is springing-but the zest
Of some wild tale, or brutal jest,

Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest.

On him they call, the aptest mate
For jovial song and merry feat;

Fast flies his dream-with dauntless air,

As one victorious o'er despair,

He bids the ruddy cup go round,

Till sense and sorrow both are drown'd,

And soon in merry wassail he,

The life of all their revelry,

Peals his loud song!-The Muse has found
Her blossoms on the wildest ground,
Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd,
Themselves all profitless and rude.—
With desperate merriment he sung,
The cavern to the chorus rung;
Yet mingled with his reckless glee
Remorse's bitter agony.

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XIX.

At length his wond'rous tale he told,
When scornful smiled his comrade bold;
For, train'd in license of a court,
Religion's self was Denzil's sport;
Then judge in what contempt he held
The visionary tales of eld!

His awe for Bertram scarce repress'd
The unbeliever's sneering jest.

«'T were hard,» he said, «for sage or seer
To spell the subject of your fear;
Nor do I boast the art renown'd,
Vision and omen to expound.
Yet, faith if I must needs afford

To spectre watching treasured hoard,
As ban-dog keeps his master's roof,
Bidding the plunderer stand aloof,
This doubt remains-thy goblin gaunt
Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt;
For why his guard on Mortham hold,
When Rokeby Castle hath the gold
Thy patron won on Indian soil,
By stealth, by piracy, and spoil ?»—

XX.

At this he paused-for angry shame
Lower'd on the brow of Risingham,
He blush'd to think that he should seem
Assertor of an airy dream,

And gave his wrath another theme.

"

Denzil,» he says, « though lowly laid,
Wrong not the memory of the dead;
For, while he lived, at Mortham's look,
Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook !
And when he tax'd thy breach of word
Το yon fair Rose of Allenford,

I saw thee crouch like chasten'd hound,
Whose back the huntsman's lash hath found.
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth

The spoil of piracy or stealth;
He won it bravely with his brand,

When Spain waged warfare with our land. (8)
Mark too-I brook no idle jeer,

Nor couple Bertram's name with fear;
Mine is but half the demon's lot,
For I believe, but tremble not.
Enough of this.-Say, why this hoard
Thou deem'st at Rokeby Castle stored!
Or think'st that Mortham would bestow
His treasure with his faction's foe?»>

XXI.

Soon quench'd was Denzil's ill-timed mirth;
Rather he would have seen the earth
Give to ten thousand spectres birth,
Than ventured to awake to flame
The deadly wrath of Risingham.
Submiss he answer'd,-« Mortham's mind,
Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined.
In youth, 't is said, a gallant free,

A lusty reveller was he;

But since return'd from over sea,

A sullen and a silent mood

Hath numb'd the current of his blood.

Hence he refused each kindly call,
To Rokeby's hospitable hall,

And our stout knight, at dawn of mora,
Who loved to hear the bugle-horn,
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd,
To see the ruddy cup go round,
Took umbrage that a friend so near
Refused to share his chase and cheer;
Thus did the kindred barons jar,
Ere they divided in the war.
Yet trust me, friend, Matilda fair

Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir.»

XXII.

« Destined to her! to yon slight maid!
The prize my life had well nigh paid,
When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave,
I fought, my patron's wealth to save!-
Denzil, I knew him long, but ne'er
Knew him that joyous cavalier,
Whom youthful friends and early fame
Call'd soul of gallantry and game.
A moody man he sought our crew,
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew;
And rose as men with us must rise,
By scorning life and all its ties.
On each adventure rash he roved,
As danger for itself he loved;

On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine;
Ill was the omen if he smiled,
For 't was in peril stern and wild;
But when he laugh'd, each luckless mate
Might hold our fortune desperate.
Foremost he fought in every broil,
Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil;
Nay, often strove to har the way
Between his comrades and their prey;
Preaching, even then, to such as we,
Hot with our dear-bought victory,
Of mercy and humanity!

XXIII.

« I loved him well-his fearless part,
His gallant leading, won my heart.
And, after each victorious fight,
'T was I that wrangled for his right,
Redeem'd his portion of the prey
That greedier mates had torn away;
In field and storm thrice saved his life,
And once amid our comrades' strife.-(9)
Yes, I have loved thee! well hath proved
My toil, my danger, how I loved!
Yet will I mourn no more thy fate,
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate.
Rise, if thou canst!»-he look'd around,
And sternly stamp'd upon the ground-
Rise, with thy bearing proud and high,
Even as this morn it met mine eye,
And give me, if thou darest, the lie!-
He paused-then, calm and passion-freed,
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed.

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XXIV.

<< Bertram, to thee 1 need not tell What thou hast cause to wot so well, How superstition's niets were twined Around the Lord of Mortham's mind;

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