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!

Een now, beside the hall's arch'd door,

I saw his shadow cross the floor!
He was to wait my signal strain—
A little respite thus we gain:

By what I heard the menials say,

Young Wycliffe's troop are on their way--
Alarm precipitates the crime!

My harp must wear away the time.»>-
And then, in accents faint and low,
He falter'd forth a tale of woe.

XXVII.

BALLAD.

And whither would you lead me then?»> Quoth the friar of orders gray; And the ruffians twain replied again,

By a dying woman to pray.»—

el see," he said, « à lovely sight, A sight bodes little harm, A lady as a lily bright,

With an infant on her arm.»

Then do thine office, friar gray,
And see thou shrive her free;

Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night,
Fling all its guilt on thee.

Let mass be said, and trentals read,
When thou 'rt to convent gone,
And bid the bell of St Benedict
Toll out its deepest tone.»-

The shrift is done, the friar is gone,
Blindfolded as he came-

Next morning all in Littlecot-hall (10)
Were weeping for their dame.

Wild Darrell is an alter'd man,

The village crones can tell;

He looks pale as clay, and strives to pray, If he hears the convent bell.

If prince or peer cross Darrell's way,
He'll beard him in his pride-
If he meet a friar of orders gray,
He droops and turns aside.
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.

While all beside in wan moon-light
Each grated casement glimmer'd white.
No sight of harm, no sound of ill,
It is a deep and midnight still.

Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd
All in the castle were at rest:
When sudden on the windows shone
A lightning flash, just seen and gone!
A shot is heard-Again the flame
Flash'd thick and fast-a volley came!
Then echoed wildly, from within,
Of shout and scream the mingled din,
And weapon clash, and maddening cry
Of those who kill, and those who die!
As fill'd the hall with sulphurous smoke,
More red, more dark, the death-flash broke,
And forms were on the lattice cast,
That struck, or struggled, as they past.

XXXII.

What sounds upon the midnight wind
Approach so rapidly behind?

It is, it is, the tramp of steeds!
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds,
Seizes upon the leader's rein-
«O haste to aid, ere aid be vain!
Fly to the postern- gain the hall !»--
From saddle spring the troopers all;
Their gallant steeds, at liberty,
Run wild along the moon-light lea.
'But ere they burst upon the scene,
Full stubborn had the conflict been.
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight,
It gave the signal for the fight;

And Rokeby's veterans, seam'd with scars
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars,
Their momentary panic o'er,
Stood to the arms which then they bore
(For they were weapon'd, and prepared
Their mistress on her way to guard).
Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale,
Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steel;
The war-smoke soon with sable breath
Darken'd the scene of blood and death,
While on the few defenders close
The bandits with redoubled blows,
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell,
Renew the charge with frantic yell.

XXXIII.

Wilfrid has fall'n-but o'er him stood
Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and blood,
Cheering his mates, with heart and hand

Still to make good their desperate stand.

"

Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby halls

Ne'er be it said our courage falls.
What! faint ye for their savage cry,

Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye?
These rafters have return'd a shout
As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout,
As thick a smoke these hearths have given
At Hallowtide or Christmas even. (11)
Stand to it yet! renew the fight,
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right!
These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand,
Bide buffet from a true man's brand.»--

Impetuous, active, fierce, and young,
Upon the advancing foes he sprung.
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent
His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent!
Backward they scatter'd as he came,
Like wolves before the levin flame,
When, 'mid their howling conclave driven,
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven.
Bertram rush'd on-but Harpool clasp'd
His knees, although in death he gasp'd,
His falling corpse before him flung,
And round the trammel'd ruffian clung.
Just then, the soldiers fill'd the dome,
And, shouting, charged the felons home
So fiercely, that, in panic dread,
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled.
Bertram's stern voice they heed no more,
Though heard above the battle's roar,
While, trampling down the dying man,
He strove, with vollied threat and ban,
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite,
To rally up the desperate fight.

XXXIV.

Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold,
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd;
So dense, the combatants scarce know
To aim or to avoid the blow.

Smothering and blindfold grows the fight-
But soon shall dawn a dismal light!
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came
The hollow sound of rushing flame;
New horrors on the tumult dire
Arise-the castle is on fire!
Doubtful if chance had cast the brand,
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand.
Matilda saw-for frequent broke
From the dim casements gusts of smoke.
Yon tower, which late so clear defined,
On the fair hemisphere reclined,
That, pencill'd on its azure pure,
The eye could count each embrazure,
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud,
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud;
Till from each loop-hole flashing light,
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright,
And, gathering to united glare,
Streams high into the midnight air,
A dismal beacon, far and wide
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side.
Soon all beneath, through gallery long,
And pendent arch, the fire flash'd strong,
Snatching whatever could maintain,
Raise, or extend, its furious reign,
Startling, with closer cause of dread,
The females who the conflict fled,
And now rush'd forth upon the plain,
Filling the air with clamours vain.

XXXV.

But ceased not yet, the hall within, The shrick, the shout, the carnage-din, Till bursting lattices give proof

The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. What! wait they till its beams amain Crash on the slayers and the slain?

The alarm is caught-the draw-bridge falls,
The warriors hurry from the walls,
But, by the conflagration's light,
Upon the lawn renew the fight.

Each straggling felon down was hew'd,
Not one could gain the sheltering wood;
But forth the affrighted harper sprung,
And to Matilda's robe he clung.
Her shriek, entreaty, and command,
Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand.
Denzil and he alive were ta'en;
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain.

XXXVI.

And where is Bertram?-Soaring high,
The general flame ascends the sky;
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze
Upon the broad and roaring blaze,
When, like infernal demon, sent
Red from his penal element,
To plague and to pollute the air,-
His face all gore, on fire his hair,
Forth from the central mass of smoke
The giant form of Bertram broke!

His brandish'd sword on high he rears,
Then plunged among opposing spears;
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd
Received and foil'd three lances' thrust;
Nor these his headlong course withstood,
Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood.
In vain his foes around him clung;
With matchless force aside he flung
Their boldest, as the bull, at bay,
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way.
Through forty foes his path he made,
And safely gain'd the forest glade.

XXXVII.

Scarce was this final conflict o'er,
When from the postern Redmond bore
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft,
Had in the fatal hall been left,
Deserted there by all his train;
But Redmond saw, and turn'd again.-
Beneath an oak he laid him down,
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown,
And then his mantle's clasp undid;
Matilda held his drooping head,
Till given to breathe the freer air,
Returning life repaid their care.
He gazed on them with heavy sigh,-

I could have wish'd e'en thus to die!»-
No more he said-for now with speed
Each trooper had regain'd his steed;
The ready palfreys stood array'd,
For Redmond and for Rokeby's maid;
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain,
One leads his charger by the rein.
But oft Matilda look'd behind,
As up the vale of Tees they wind,
Where far the mansion of her sires
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires.
In gloomy arch above them spread,
The clouded heaven lour'd bloody red;
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood.

Then, one by one, was heard to fall
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall.
Each rushing down with thunder sound,
A space the conflagration drown'd;
Till, gathering strength, again it rose,
Announced its triumph in its close,
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er,
Then sunk and Rokeby was no more!

CANTO VI.

I.

THE summer sun, whose early power
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower,
And rouse her with his matin ray
Her duteous orisons to pay,

That morning sun has three times seen
The flowers unfold on Rokeby green,
But sees no more the slumbers fly
From fair Matilda's hazel eye;
That morning sun has three times broke
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak,
But, rising from their sylvan screen,
Marks no gray turrets glance between.
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower,
That, hissing to the morning shower,
Can but with smouldering vapour pay
The early smile of summer day.
The

peasant, to his labour bound,
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound,
Striving, amid the ruin'd space,
Each well-remember'd spot to trace.
That length of frail and fire-scorch'd wall
Once screen'd the hospitable hall;
When yonder broken arch was whole,
T was there was dealt the weekly dole;
And where yon tottering columns nod,
The chapel sent the hymn to God.
So flits the world's uncertain span'
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man,
Gives mortal monuments a date,
Beyond the power of Time and Fate.
The towers must share the builder's doom;
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb;
But better boon benignant Heaven
To Faith and Charity has given,

And bids the christian hope sublime Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time.

Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high,
Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye,
That all the day had watch'd so well
The cushat dart across the dell.
In dubious beam reflected shone
That lofty cliff of pale gray stone,
Beside whose base the secret cave
To rapine late a refuge gave.

The crag's wild crest of copse and yew
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw;
Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight,
With every change of fitful light;
As hope and fear alternate chase
Our course through life's uncertain race.

III.

Gliding by crag and copse-wood green,
A solitary form was seen

To trace with stealthy pace the wold,
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold,
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd,
At every breath that stirs the shade.
He

passes now the ivy-bush,

The owl has seen him and is hush;
He passes now the dodder'd oak,
Ye heard the startled raven croak;
Lower and lower he descends,
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends;
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the cliff of pale gray stone
The midnight wanderer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remember'd form and face!
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale,
Combine to tell a rueful tale,
Of powers misused, of passion's force,
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse!
'Tis Edmund's eye at every sound
That flings that guilty glance around;
'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides
The brushwood that the cavern hides,
And, when its narrow porch lies bare,
'Tis Edmund's form that enters there.

IV.

His flint and steel have sparkled bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light.
Fearful and quick his eye surveys
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode,
It seem'd as none its floor had trode;
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil,
The purchase of his comrades' toil;
Masks and disguises grimed with mud,
Arms broken and defiled with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade,
Upon the gloomy walls were hung,
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relics of the noontide cheer;
Flagons and emptied flasks were there,
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair;
And all around the semblance show'd,
As when the final revel glow'd,

When the red sun was setting fast,
And parting pledge Guy Denzil pass'd,
To Rokeby treasure-vaults! They quaff'd,
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd,
Pour'd maddening from the rocky door,
And parted-to return no more!
They found in Rokeby vaults their doom,—
A bloody death, a burning tomb.

V.

There his own peasant dress he spies,
Doff d to assume that quaint disguise,
And shuddering thought upon his glee,
When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy.
«O be the fatal art accurst,»
He cried, << that moved my folly first,
Till bribed by bandits' base applause,

I burst through God's and nature's laws!
Three summer days are scantly past
Since I have trode this cavern last,

A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err-
But O, as yet no murderer!

Even now I list my comrades' cheer,
That general laugh is in mine ear,

Which raised my pulse and steel'd my heart,
As I rehearsed my treacherous part-
And would that all since then could seem
The phantom of a fever's dream!
But fatal memory notes too well
The horrors of the dying yell,

From my despairing mates that broke,
When flash'd the fire and roll'd the smoke,
When the avengers shouting came,

And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and flame!
My frantic flight,-the lifted brand,—
That angel's interposing hand!-
If for my life from slaughter freed,
I yet could pay some grateful meed!
Perchance this object of my quest
May aid he turn'd, nor spoke the rest.

VI.

Due northward from the rugged hearth,
With paces five he metes the earth,
Then toil'd with mattock to explore
The entrails of the cavern floor,

Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground,
His search a small steel casket found.
Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp,
His shoulder felt a giant grasp;

He started, and look'd up aghast,

Then shriek'd-'t was Bertram held him fast.

<< Fear not!» he said; but who could hear
That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?

« Fear not!-by Heaven he shakes as much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch !»-
He raised him, and unloosed his hold,
While from the opening casket roll'd
A chain and reliquaire of gold.
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gazed on its fashion and device,
Then, cheering Edmund as he could,
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood;
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Quiver'd with terror's agony,
And sidelong glanced, as to explore,
In meditated flight, the door.