But since he drove thee from his tower,
A maid he found in Greta's bower,
Whose speech, like David's harp, had sway
To charm his evil fiend away.
I know not if her features moved,
Remembrance of the wife he loved;
But he would gaze upon her eye,
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh.
He, whom no living mortal sought
To question of his secret thought,
Now, every thought and care confess'd
To his fair niece's faithful breast;
Nor was there aught of rich or rare,
In earth, in ocean, or in air,
But it must deck Matilda's hair.
Her love still bound him unto life;
But then awoke the civil strife,
And menials bore, by his commands,
Three coffers with their iron bands,
From Mortham's vault at midnight deep,
To her lone bower in Rokeby-keep,
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride,
His gift, if he in battle died.»-
Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train,
These iron-banded chests to gain;
Else, wherefore should he hover here,
Where
many a peril waits him near,
For all his feats of war and peace,
For plunder'd boors and harts of greece?1
Since through the hamlets as he fared,
What hearth has Guy's marauding spared,
Or where the chase that bath.not rung
With Denzil's bow at midnight strung?»>—
I hold my wont-my rangers go
Even now to track a milk-white doe. (10)
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair,
Ja Greta wood she harbours fair,
And when my huntsman marks her way,
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey?
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power,
We rate her ransom at her dower !»-
«T is well!-there's vengeance in the thought! Matilda is by Wilfrid sought,
And hot-brain'd Redmond, too, 't is said,
Pays lover's homage to the maid.
Bertram she scorn'd-if met by chance,
She turn'd from me her shuddering glance,
Like a nice dame, that will not brook
On what she hates and loathes to look;
She told to Mortham, she could ne'er
Behold me without secret fear,
Foreboding evil :-she may rue
To find her prophecy fall true!-
The war has weeded Rokeby's train,
Few followers in his halls remain;
If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold,
We are enow to storm the hold,
Bear off the plunder and the dame,
And leave the castle all in flame.»>-
« Still art thou Valour's venturous son!
Yet ponder first the risk to run:
The menials of the castle, true,
And stubborn to their charge, though few;
The wall to scale-the moat to cross-
The wicket-grate-the inner fosse ->>
<< Fool! if we blench for toys like these,
On what fair guerdon can we seize ?
Our hardiest venture, to explore
Some wretched peasant's fenceless door,
And the best prize we bear away,
The earnings of his sordid day.»>—
-«Awhile thy hasty taunt forbear:
In sight of road more sure and fair,
Thou wouldst not chuse, in blindfold wrath,
Or wantonness, a desperate path?
List then :-for vantage or assault,
From gilded vane to dungeon-vault,
Each path of Rokeby-house I know;
There is one postern dark and low,
That issues at a secret spot,
By most neglected or forgot.
Now, could a spial of our train
On fair pretext admiftance gain,
That sally-port might be unbarr'd;
Then, vain were battlement and ward!»-
Of early hopes his childhood gave,—
Now center'd all in Brignal cave!
I watch him well-his wayward course
Shows oft a tincture of remorse;
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart,
And oft the scar will ache and smart.
Yet is he useful;-of the rest
By fits the darling and the jest,
His harp, his story, and his lay,
Oft aid the idle hours away:
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate
Is ripe for mutinous debate.
He tuned his strings e'en now-again
He wakes them, with a blither strain.»>
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side,
And then young Redmond in his pride
Shot down to meet them on their way;
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say:
There's time to pitch both toil and net,
Before their path be homeward set.»—
A hurried and a whisper'd speech
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach,
Who, turning to the robber band,
Bade four the bravest take the brand.
When Denmark's Raven soar'd on high,
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky,
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke, (1)
And the broad shadow of her wing
Blacken'd each cataract and spring,
Where Tees in tumult leaves lfs source,
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force; (2)
Beneath the shade the Northmen came,
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name, (3)
Rear'd high their altars' rugged stone,
And gave their gods the land they won.
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine,
And one sweet brooklet's silver line,
And Woden's Croft did title gain
From the stern Father of the Slain!
But to the Monarch of the Mace,
That held in fight the foremost place,
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse,
Near Startforth high they paid their vows,
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame,
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name.
Yet scald or kemper err'd, I ween,
Who gave that soft and quiet scene,
With all its varied light and shade,
And every little sunny glade,
And the blithe brook that strolls along
Its pebbled bed with summer song,
To the grim god of blood and scar,
The grisly King of Northern War.
O better were its banks assign'd
To spirits of a gentler kind!
For, where the thicket-groups recede,
And the rathe primrose decks the mead,
The velvet grass seems carpet meet
For the light fairies' lively feet.
You tufted knoll, with daisies strown,
Might make proud Oberon a throne,
While, hidden in the thicket nigh,
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly;
And where profuse the wood-veitch clings
Round ash and elm in verdant rings,
Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower
Should canopy Titania's bower.
Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade, But skirting every sunny glade,
In fair variety
The woodland lends its sylvan screen.
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak,
Its boughs by weight of ages broke;
And towers erect, in sable spire,
The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire;
The drooping ash and birch, between,
Hang their fair tresses o'er the green,
And all beneath at random grow,
Each coppice dwarf of varied show,
Or round the stems profusely twined,
Fiing summer odours on the wind.
Such varied group Urbino's hand
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd,
What time he bade proud Athens own
On Mars's Mount the God Unknown!
Then gray philosophy stood nigh,
Though bent by age, in spirit high;
There rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear,
There Grecian beauty bent to hear,
While Childhood at her foot was placed,
Or clung delighted to lier waist.
«And rest we here,» Matilda said,
And sate her in the varying shade.
* Chance-met, we well may steal an hour,
To friendship due from fortune's power.
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend
Thy counsel to thy sister-friend;
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest,
No farther urge thy desperate quest,
For to my care a charge is left,
Dangerous to one of aid bereft,
Well nigh an orphan, and alone,
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown.»-
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced,
Beside her on the turf she placed;
Then paused, with downcast look and eye,
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh.
Her conscious diffidence he saw,
Drew backward as in modest awe,
And sate a little space removed,
Camark'd to gaze on her he loved.
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
you had said her hue was pale; But if she faced the summer gale, Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, Or heard the praise of those she loved, Or when of interest was express'd Aught that waked feeling in her breast, The mantling blood in ready play Rival'd the blush of rising day. There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high,
The eye-lash dark and downcast eye;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resign'd;-
"T is that which Roman art has given,
To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven.
In hours of sport, that mood gave way,
To Fancy's light and frolic play;
And when the dance, or tale, or song,
In harmless mirth sped time along,
Full oft her doating sire would call
His Maud the merriest of them all.
But days of war, and civil crime,
Allow'd but ill such festal time,
And her soft pensiveness of brow
Had deepen'd into sadness now.
In Marston field her father ta'en,
Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain,
While every ill her soul foretold,
From Oswald's thirst of power and gold,
And boding thoughts that she must part
With a soft vision of her heart,-
All lour'd around the lovely maid,
To darken her dejection's shade.
Who has not heard-while Erin yet Strove 'gainst the Saxons' iron bitWho has not heard how brave O'Neale In English blood imbrued his steel, (4) Against St George's cross blazed high The banners of his Tanistry,
To fiery Essex gave the foil,
And reign'd a prince in Ulster's soil?
But chief arose his victor pride,
When that brave marshal fought and died, (5) And Avon-Duff to ocean bore
His billows, red with Saxon gore.
'T was first in that disastrous fight,
Rokeby and Mortham proved their might.
There had they fall'n among the rest,
But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast;
The Tanist he to great O'Neale, (6)
He check'd his followers' bloody zeal,
To quarter took the kinsmen bold,
And bore them to his mountain-hold,
Gave them each sylvan joy to know,
Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could show;
Shared with them Erin's festal cheer;
Show'd them the chase of wolf and deer,
And, when a fitting time was come,
Safe and unransom'd sent them home,
Loaded with may a gift, to prove
A generous foe's respect and love.
Years speed away. On Rokeby's head
Some touch of early snow was shed;
Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave,
The peace which James the Peaceful gave,
While Mortham, far beyond the main,
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain.-
It chanced upon a wintry night,
That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy height,
The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd,
In Rokeby-hall the cups were fill'd,
And, by the huge stone-chimney, sate
The knight, in hospitable state.
Moonless the sky, the hour was late,
When a loud summons shook the gate,
And sore for entrance and for aid
A voice of foreign accent pray'd,
The porter answer'd to the call,
And instant rush'd into the hall
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
Ilis plaited hair in elf-locks spread (7)
Around his bare and matted head;
On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and trim,
His vesture show'd the sinewy limb;
In saffron dyed, a linen vest
Was frequent folded round his breast;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore.
He clasp'd a burthen to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,
The snow from hair and beard he shook,
And round him gazed with wilder'd look:
Then up the hall, with staggering pace,
He hasten'd by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air,
His load, a boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he louted low,
Then stood erect his tale to show,
With wild majestic port and tone,
Like envoy of some barbarous throne. (8)
<< Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear!
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear;
He graces thee, and to thy care
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair.
He bids thee breed him as thy son,
For Turlough's days of joy are done;
And other lords have seized his land,
And faint and feeble is his hand.
And all the glory of Tyrone
Is like a morning vapour flown.
To bind the duty on thy soul,
He bids thee think of Erin's bowl!
If any wrong the young O'Neale,
He bids thee think on Erin's steel.
To Mortham first this charge was due,
But, in his absence, honours you.—
Now is my master's message by,
And Ferraught will contented die.»-
His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew pale,
He sunk when he had told his tale,
For, hid beneath his mantle wide,
A mortal wound was in his side.
Vain was all aid-in terror wild,
And sorrow, scream'd the orphan child.
Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes,
And faintly strove to soothe his cries;
All reckless of his dying pain,
He bless'd, and bless'd him o'er again!
And kiss'd the little hands outspread,
And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head,
And, in his native tongue and phrase,
Pray'd to each saint to watch his days;
Then all his strength together drew,
The charge to Rokeby to renew.
When half was falter'd from his breast,
And half by dying signs express'd,
<< Bless thee, O'Neale!» he faintly said, And thus the faithful spirit fled.
"T was long ere soothing might prevail
Upon the child to end the tale;
And then he said, that from his home
His grandsire had been forced to roam,
Which had not been if Redmond's hand
Had but had strength to draw the brand,
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red,
That hung beside the gray wolf's head.-
"T was from his broken phrase descried,
His foster-father was his guide, (9)
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore
Letters, and gifts a goodly store;
But ruffians met them in the wood,
Ferraught in battle boldly stood,
Till wounded and o'erpower'd at length,
And stripp'd of all, his failing strength
Just bore him here-and then the child
Renew'd again his moaning wild.
The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry;
Won by their care, the orphan child
Soon on his new protectors smiled,
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair.
But blithest laugh'd that cheek and eye,
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;
'T was his, with elder brother's pride,
Matilda's tottering steps to guide;
His native lays in Irish tongue,
To soothe her infant ear, he sung,
And primrose twined with daisy fair,
To form a chaplet for her hair.
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,
The children still were hand in hand,
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed
The early knot so kindly tied.
But summer months bring wilding shoot From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit; And years draw on our human span, From child to boy, from boy to man; And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen A gallant boy in hunter's green. He loves to wake the felon boar, In his dark haunt on Greta's shore, And loves, against the deer so dun, To draw the shaft, or lift the gun; Yet more he loves, in autumn prime, The hazel's spreading boughs to climb, And down its cluster'd stores to hail, Where young Matilda holds her veil. And she, whose veil receives the shower, Is alter'd too, and knows her power; Assumes a monitress's pride, Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide, Yet listens still to hear him tell How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,
How at his fall the bugle rung,
Till rock and green-wood answer flung:
Then blesses her, that man can find
A pastime of such savage kind!
But Redmond knew to weave his tale
So well with praise of wood and dale,
And knew so well each point to trace,
Gives living interest to the chase,
And knew so well o'er all to throw
His spirit's wild romantic glow,
That, while she blamed, and while she fear'd,
She loved each venturous tale she heard.
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain
To bower and hall their steps restrain,
Together they explored the page
Of glowing bard or gifted sage;
Oft, placed the evening fire beside,
The minstrel art alternate tried,
While gladsome harp and lively lay
Bade winter-night flit fast away:
Thus from their childhood blending still
Their sport, their study, and their skill,
An union of the soul they prove,
But must not think that it was love.
But, though they dared not, envious Fame
Soon dared to give that union name;
And when so often, side by side,
From year to year the pair she eyed,
She sometimes blamed the good old knight,
As dull of ear and dim of sight,
Sometimes his purpose would declare,
That young O'Neale should wed his heir.
The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise
And bandage from the lovers' eyes;
Twas plain that Oswald, for his son,
Had Rokeby's favour well nigh won.
Now must they meet with change of cheer,
With mutual looks of shame and fear;
Now must Matilda stray apart,
To school her disobedient heart;
And Redmond now alone must rue
The love he never can subdue.
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware,
No rebel's son should wed his heir;
And Redmond, nurtured while a child
In many a bard's traditions wild,
Now sought the lonely wood or stream,
To cherish there a happier dream,
Of maiden won by sword or lance,
As in the regions of romance;
And count the heroes of his line,
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine, (10)
Shane-Dymas wild, (11) and Geraldine, (12)
And Connan-More, who vow'd his race
For ever to the fight and chase,
And cursed him, of his lineage born,
Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn,
Or leave the mountain and the wold,
To shroud himself in castle hold.
From such examples hope he drew,
And brighten'd as the trumpet blew.
If brides were won by heart and blade,
Redmond had both his cause to aid,
And all beside of nurture rare
That might beseem a baron's heir,
Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife,
On Rokeby's lord bestow'd his life,
And well did Rokeby's generous knight
Young Redmond for the deed requite.
Nor was his liberal care and cost
Upon the gallant stripling lost:
Seek the North Riding broad and wide,
Like Redmond none could steed bestride;
From Tynemouth search to Cumberland,
Like Redmond none could wield a brand;
And then, of humour kind and free,
And bearing him to each degree
With frank and fearless courtesy,
There never youth was form'd to steal,
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale.
Sir Richard loved him as his son,
And when the days of peace were done,
And to the gales of war he gave
The banner of his sires to wave,
Redmond, distinguish'd by his care,
He chose that honour'd flag to bear, (13)
And named his page, the next degree
In that old time to chivalry. (14)
In five pitch'd fields he well maintain'd
The honour'd place his worth obtain'd,
And high was Redmond's youthful name
Blazed in the roll of martial fame.
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight,
The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight;
Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful strife,
Of Rokeby's lord he saved the life;
But when he saw him prisoner made,
He kiss'd, and then resign'd his blade,
And yielded him an easy prey
To those who led the knight away,
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove
In prison, as in fight, his love.
When lovers meet in adverse hour,
'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower,
A watery ray an instant seen
The darkly-closing clouds between.
As Redmond on the turf reclined,
The past and present fill'd his mind;
<< It was not thus,» Affection said,
<< I dream'd of my return, dear maid!
Not thus, when, from thy trembling hand,
I took the banner and the brand,
When round me, as the bugles blew,
Their blades three hundred warriors drew,
And, while the standard I unroll'd,
Clash'd their bright arms with clamour bold. Where is that banner now ?-its pride
Lies whelm'd in Ouze's sullen tide!
Where now these warriors?-in their gore,
They cumber Marston's dismal moor!
And what avails a useless brand,
Held by a captive's shackled hand,
|