Baron's race throve never well,
Where the curse of minstrel fell,

If you love that noble kin,
Take the weary harper in!»-

Hark! Harpool parleys-there is hope,>> Said Redmond, « that the gate will ope.»-For all thy brag and boast, I trow, Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow,» (3) Quoth Harpool, « nor how Greta-side She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide; Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast To Richmond's friars to make a feast. Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale

Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale,

That well could strike with sword amain,

And of the valiant son of Spain,
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph;
There were a jest to make us laugh!
If thou canst tell it, in yon

shed

Thou 'st won thy supper and thy bed.>>

X.

Matilda smiled; Cold hope,» said she, From Harpool's love of minstrelsy! But for this harper, may we dare, Redmond, to mend his couch and fare?»- ask not me! at minstrel string My heart from infancy would spring; Nor can I hear its simplest strain, But it brings Erin's dream again, When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee (The Filea of O'Neale was he, (4) A blind and bearded man, whose eld Was sacred as a prophet's held), I've seen a ring of rugged kerne With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern, Enchanted by the master's lay, Linger around the livelong day, Shift from wild rage to wilder glee, To love, to grief, to ecstasy, And feel each varied change of soul Obedient to the bard's control.Ah, Clandeboy! thy friendly floor Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more; (5) Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze, Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise! The mantling brambles hide thy hearth, Centre of hospitable mirth; All undistinguish'd in the glade, My sires glad home is prostrate laid, Their vassals wander wide and far, Serve foreign lords in distant war, And now the stranger's sons enjoy The lovely woods of Clandeboy!»He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside, The starting tear to dry and hide.

XI.

Matilda's dark and soften'd eye
Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry.
Her hand upon his arm she laid,-
It is the will of Heaven,» she said.
And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part
From this loved home with lightsome heart,

Leaving to wild neglect whate'er
E'en from my infancy was dear?
For in this calm domestic bound
Were all Matilda's pleasures found.
That hearth, my sire was wont to grace,
Full soon may be a stranger's place;
This hall, in which a child I play'd,
Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid,
The bramble and the thorn may braid;
Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine,
It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line.
Yet is this consolation given,

My Redmond,-'t is the will of Heaven.»-
Her word, her action, and her phrase,

Were kindly as in early days;

For cold reserve had lost its power,

In sorrow's sympathetic hour.

Young Redmond dared not trust his voice;

But rather had it been his choice

To share that melancholy hour,

Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's power,
In full possession to enjoy
Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy.

XII.

The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek; Matilda sees, and hastes to speak.

Happy in friendship's ready aid,
Let all my murmurs here be staid!
And Rokeby's maiden will not part
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
This night at least, for Rokeby's fame,
The hospitable hearth shall flame,
And, ere its native heir retire,
Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
While this poor harper, by the blaze,
Recounts the tale of other days.
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed,
Admit him, and relieve each need.-
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try
Thy minstrel skill?-nay, no reply-
And look not sad!—I guess thy thought,
Thy verse with laurels would be bought,
And poor Matilda, landless now,
Has not a garland for thy brow.
True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades,
Nor wander more in Greta shades;

But sure, no rigid jailer, thou
Wilt a short prison-walk allow,
Where summer flowers grow wild at will,
On Marwood-chase and Toller-hill; (6)
Then holly green and lily gay
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.»—
The mournful youth, a space aside,
To tune Matilda's harp applied;
And then a low sad descant rung,
As prelude to the lay he sung.

XIII.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;

But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle-bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;

Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue
With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen

The flower she loves of emerald green-
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree!

Shall

many a wreath be freely wove
By hand of friendship and of love.
I would not wish that rigid Fate
Had doom'd thee to a captive's state,
Whose hands are bound by honour's law,
Who wears a sword he must not draw;
But were it so, in minstrel pride
The land together would we ride,
On prancing steeds, like harpers old,
Bound for the halls of barons bold.
Each lover of the lyre we 'd seek,
From Michael's mount to Skiddaw's peak,
Survey wild Albyn's mountain strand,
And roam green Erin's lovely land,
While thou the gentler souls should move,
With lay of pity and of love,
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain,
Would sing of war and warriors slain.
Old England's bards were vanquish'd then,
And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, (7)
And, silenced on lernian shore,

M' Curtin's harp (8) should charm no more!»

In lively mood he spoke, to wile
From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile.

XV.

<< But,» said Matilda, «< ere thy name,
Good Redmond, gain its destined fame,
Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call
Thy brother minstrel to the hall?
Bid all the household, too, attend,
Each in his rank a humble friend;
I know their faithful hearts will grieve,
When their poor mistress takes her leave,
So let the horn and beaker flow
To mitigate their parting woe.»>—
The harper came:-in youth's first prime
Himself; in mode of olden time
His garb was fashion'd, to express
The ancient English minstrel's dress; (9)
A seemly gown of Kendal green,
With gorget closed of silver sheen;
His harp in silken scarf was slung,
And by his side an anlace hung.
It seem'd some masquer's quaint array,
For revel or for holiday.

XVI.

He made obeisance, with a free
Yet studied air of courtesy.
Each look and accent, framed to please,
Seem'd to affect a playful ease;
His face was of that doubtful kind,
That wins the eye but not the mind;
Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss
Of brow so young and smooth as this.
His was the subtle look and sly,
That, spying all, seems nought to spy;
Round all the group his glances stole,
Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole,
Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look,
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook.
To the suspicious, or the old,
Subtle and dangerous and bold
Had seem'd this self-invited guest;
But young our lovers,-and the rest,
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear
At parting of their mistress dear,
Tear-blinded to the castle-hall
Came, as to bear her funeral pall.

XVII.

All that expression base was gone,
When waked the guest his minstrel tone;
It fled at inspiration's call,

As erst the demon fled from Saul.
More noble glance he cast around,
More free-drawn breath inspired the sound,
His pulse beat bolder and more high,
In all the pride of minstrelsy!
Alas! too soon that pride was o'er,
Sunk with the lay that bade it soar!
His soul resumed, with habit's chain,
Its vices wild and follies vain,
And gave the talent, with him born,
To be a common curse and scorn.
Such was the youth whom Rokeby's maid,
With condescending kindness, pray'd

Here to renew the strain she loved,
At distance heard and well approved.

XVIII.

SONG. THE HARP.

I was a wild and wayward boy,

My childhood scorn'd each childish toy; Retired from all, reserved and coy,

To musing prone,

I woo'd my solitary joy,

My harp alone.

My youth, with bold ambition's mood,
Despised the humble stream and wood
Where my poor father's cottage stood,

To fame unknown;

What should my soaring views make good?
My harp alone.

Love came with all his frantic fire,
And wild romance of vain desire;
The baron's daughter heard my lyre,
And praised the tone;-

What could presumptuous hope inspire?
My harp alone.

At manhood's touch the bubble burst,
And manhood's pride the vision curst,
And all that had my folly nursed

Love's sway to own;

Yet spared the spell that lull'd me first,
My harp alone.

« Alas!» Matilda said, « that strain,
Good harper, now is heard in vain!
The time has been, at such a sound,
When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round,
An hundred manly hearts would bound;
But now, the stirring verse we hear,
Like trump in dying soldier's ear!
Listless and sad the notes we own,
The power to answer them is flown.
Yet not without his meet applause
Be he that sings the rightful cause,
Even when the crisis of its fate
To human eye seems desperate.
While Rokeby's heir such power retains,
Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains :-
And lend thy harp; I fain would try,
If my poor skill can aught supply,

The harper, with a downcast look,
And trembling hand, her bounty took.
As
yet, the conscious pride of art

Had steel'd him in his treach'rous part;
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd,
That hath each gentler mood suppress'd,
And reign'd in many a human breast,
From his that plans the red campaign,
To his that wastes the woodland reign.
The falling wing, the bloodshot eye,
The sportsman marks with apathy,
Each feeling of his victim's ill
Drown'd in his own successful skill.
The veteran, too, who now no more
Aspires to head the battle's roar,
Loves still the triumph of his art,
And traces on the pencill'd chart
Some stern invader's destined way,
Through blood and ruin, to his prey;
Patriots to death, and towns to flame,
He dooms, to raise another's name,

And shares the guilt, though not the fame.
What pays him for his span of time
Spent in premeditated crime?

What against pity arms his heart?-
It is the conscious pride of art.

XXIII.

But principles in Edmund's mind
Were baseless, vague, and undefined.
His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On passion's changeful tide was tost;
Nor vice nor virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour;
And O! when passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to virtue's share!
Yet now she roused her-for the pride,
That lack of sterner guilt supplied,
Could scarce support him when arose
The lay that mourn'd Matilda's woes.

SONG. THE FAREWELL.

The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear,
They mingle with the
song;
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,

I must not hear them long.
From every loved and native haunt

The native heir must stray,

And, like a ghost whom sun-beams daunt, Must part before the day.

Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd,
Their scutcheons may descend,

A line so long beloved and fear'd
May soon obscurely end.
No longer here Matilda's tone

Shall bid these echoes swell,

Yet shall they hear her proudly own The cause in which we fell.

The lady paused, and then again Resumed the lay in loftier strain.

XXIV.

Let our halls and towers decay,
Be our name and line forgot,
Lands and manors pass away,-

We but share our monarch's lot. If no more our annals show Battles won and banners taken, Still in death, defeat, and woe, Ours be loyalty unshaken!

Constant still in danger's hour,

Princes own'd our father's aid; Lands and honours, wealth and power, Well their loyalty repaid.

Perish wealth, and power, and pride! Mortal boons by mortals given; But let constancy abide : Constancy's the gift of Heaven.

XXV.

While thus Matilda's lay was heard,
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody,
And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,
Claiming respect, yet waving state,
That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown;
But while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty,-
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd
The very object he had dream'd,
When, long e'er guilt his soul had known,
In Winston bowers he mused alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine
The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of princess fair, by cruel fate
Reft of her honours, power, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restored
By destined hero's conquering sword.

XXVI.

« Such was my vision !» Edmund thought;
<< And have I then the ruin wrought
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision form'd her peer?
Was it my hand, that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes!
Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith,
Their kindest mercy sudden death!
Have I done this? I, who have swore,
That if the globe such angel bore,

I would have traced its circle broad,
To kiss the ground on which she trod!-
And now-O! would that earth would rive,
And close upon me while alive!-
Is there no hope? is all then lost?-
Bertram's already on his post!

"

XXVIII

Harper! methinks thy magic lays,>> Matilda said, «< can goblins raise! Well nigh my fancy can discern, Near the dark porch, a visage stern; Een now, in yonder shadowy nook I see it!-Redmond, Wilfrid, look! A human form distinct and clear— God, for thy mercy!-It draws near!»— She saw too true. Stride after stride, The centre of the chamber wide Fierce Bertram gain'd; then made a stand, And, proudly waving with his hand, Thunder'd Be still, upon your lives! He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives.»Behind their chief, the robber crew Forth from the darken'd portal drew, In silence-save that echo dread

Return'd their heavy measured tread.

The lamp's uncertain lustre gave

Their arms to gleam, their plumes to wave; File after file in order pass,

Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass.

Then, halting at their leader's sign,

At once they form'd and curved their line,
Hemming within its crescent drear
Their victims, like a herd of deer.
Another sign, and to the aim
Levell'd at once their muskets came,

As waiting but their chieftain's word,
To make their fatal volley heard.

XXIX.

Back in a heap the menials drew,
Yet, even in mortal terror, true,
·Their pale and startled group oppose
Between Matilda and the foes.

«O haste thee, Wilfrid !» Redmond cried;

<< Undo that wicket by thy side!
Bear hence Matilda-gain the wood-
The pass may be awhile made good-
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh-
O speak not-dally not-but fly!»—
While yet the crowd their motions hide,
Through the low wicket door they glide,
Through vaulted passages they wind,
In Gothic intricacy twined;
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore,
Matilda to the postern door,

And safe beneath the forest tree

The lady stands at liberty.

The moon-beams, the fresh gale's caress, Renew'd suspended consciousness:« Where's Redmond?» eagerly she cries: « Thou answer'st not-he dies! he dies! And thou hast left him, all bereft Of mortal aid-with murderers left!

I know it well-he would not yield

His sword to man-his doom is seal'd!
For my scorn'd life, which thou hast bought
At price of his, I thank thee not.»>-

XXX.

The unjust reproach, the angry look,
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook.
Lady,» he said, « my band so near,
In safety thou mayst rest thee here.
For Redmond's death thou shalt not mourn,
If mine can buy his safe return.»—
He turn'd away-his heart throbb'd high,
The tear was bursting from his eye.
The sense of her injustice press'd
Upon the maid's distracted breast,-
Stay, Wilfrid, stay! all aid is vaiu !»>—
He heard, but turn'd him not again;
He reaches now the postern door,
Now enters-and is seen no more.

XXXI.

With all the agony that e'er

Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and fear, She watch'd the line of windows tall Whose Gothic lattice lights the hall, Distinguish'd by the paly red

The lamps in dim reflection shed,