Of import foul and fierce, designed, While still on Bertram's grasping mind The wealth of murdered Mortham bung; 'Though ball he feared his daring tongue, When it should give his wishes birth, Might raise a spectre from the earth!

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At length his wond'rous tale he told,
When scornful smiled his comrade bold;
For, trained 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 repressed
The unbeliever's sneering jest.
“ 'Twere hard,” he said, “ for sage or seer
To spell the subject of your fear;
Nor do I boast the art renowned,
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?"

At this he paused-for angry shame
Lowered on the brow of Risingham.
He blushed to think that he should scem
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 Jook
rhy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook!
And when he taxed thy breach of word
To yon fair rose of Allenford,
I saw thee crouch like chastened hound,
Whose back the huntsman's lash hath found.
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth
The spoil of piracy or stealtb;
He won it bravely with his brand,
When Spain waged warfare with our land.8
Mark tool 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 quencbed was Denzil's ill-timed mirth: Rather he would have seen the earth Give to ten thousand spectres birth, Than venture to awake to flame The deadly wrath of Risingham. Submiss he answered, -"Mortham's mind, Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, A lusty reveller was he; But since returned from over sea, A sullen and a silent mood Hath numbed the current of his blood. Hence he refused each kindly call To Rokeby's hospitable hall,

And our stout knight, at dawn of mor,
Who loved to hear the bugle-horn,
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrowned,
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.”

« 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
Called soul of gallantry and game.
A moody man he sought our crew,
Desperate and dark, whom no one knewi
And rose, as men with us must rise,
By scorning life and all its ties.
On each adventure rash he
As danger for itself he loved;
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine;
III was the omen if he smiled,
For 'twas in peril stern and wild;
But when he laughed, each luckless mato
Might hold our fortune desperate.
Foremost he fought in every broil,
Then scornful turned him from the spoil;
Nay, often strove to bar the way
Between his comrades and their prey;
Preaching, e'en then, to such as we,
Hot with our dear-bought victory,
Of mercy and humanity!

" 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,
Redeemed 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,
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 looked around,
And sternly stamped upon the ground-
“ Rise, with thy bearing proud and high,
E’en as this morn it met mine eye,
And give me, if thou dar’st, the lie!”
He paused-then, calm and passion-freed,
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed.

" Bertram, to thee I need not tell
What thou hast cause to wot so well,
How superstition’s nets were twined
Around the lord of Mortham's mind;
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 softened to a sigh.

He, whom no living mortal sought

List then:-for vantage or assault, To question of his secret thought,

From gilded vane to dungeon vault, Now, every thought and care confessed

Each path of Rokeby-house I knov. To his fair niece's faithful breast;

There is one postern dark and low, Nor was there aught of rich or rare,

That issues at a secret spot, ln earth, in ocean, or in air,

By most neglected or forgot. But it must deck Matilda's hair.

Now, could a spial of our train Her love still bound him unto life;

On fair pretext admittance gain. But then awoke the civil strife,

That sally-port might be unbarred; And menials bore, by his commands,

Then, vain were battlement and ward!"
Three coffers with their iron bands,

From Mortham's vault at midnight deep. “Now speak’st thou well;-to me the
To her lone bower in Rokeby-keep,

If force or art shall urge the game;
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride,

Indifferent if like fox I wind,
His gift, if he in battle died.”-

Or spring like tiger on the hind. -

But hark! our merry-men so gay " Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train,

Troll forth another roundelay.” These iron-banded chests to gain;

SONG, Else, wherefore should he hover here,

“ A weary lot is thine, fair maid, Where many a peril waits him near,

A weary lot is thine! For all his feats of war and peace,

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, For plupdered boors and harts of greece?*

And press the rue for wine! Since through the hamlets as he fared,

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, What hearth has Guy's marauding spared,

A feather of the blue, Or where the chase that hath not rung

A doublet of the Lincoln green,With Denzil's bow at midnight strung?"

No more of me you knew, “I hold my wont-my rangers go

My love! E'en now to track a milk-white doe. 10

No more of me you knew. By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair,

« This morn is merry June, I trow, In Greta wood she harbours fair,

The rose is budding fain, And when my huntsman marks her way,

But sbe shall bloom in winter snow, What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey?

Ere we two meet again.” Were Rokeby's daughter in our power,

He turned his charger as he spake,"
We rate her rapsom at her dower!"

Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle reins a shake, « 'Tis well!—there's vengeance in the thought! Said, “ Adieu for evermore, Matilda is by Wilfrid sought,

My love! And hot-brained Redmond, too, 'tis said,

And adieu for evermore.”—
Pays lover's homage to the maid.

Bertram she scorned—if met by chance, “ What youth is this your band among,
She turned from me her shuddering glance. The best for minstrelsy and song?
Like a nice dame, that will not brook

In his wild notes seem aptly met
On what she hates and loathes to look;

A strain of pleasure and regret."She told to Mortham, she could ne'er

“ Edmund of Winston is his name; Behold me without secret fear,

The hamlet sounded with the fame Foreboding evil;--she may rue

Of early hopes his childbood gave,To find her prophecy fall true!

Now centered all in Brigoal cave! The war has weeded Rokeby's train,

I watch him well-bis wayward course Few followers in his halls remain;

Shows oft a tincture of remorse: If thy scheme miss, then, briet and bold,

Some early love-shaft grazed his heart, We are enow to storm the hold,

And oft the scar will ache and smart. Bear off the plunder and the dame,

Yet is he useful;--of the rest
And leave the castle all in flame.”

By fits the darling and the jest,

His harp, his story, and his lay, « Still art thou valour's venturous son!

Oft aid the idle hours away; Yet ponder first the risk to run;

When unemployed, each fiery mate The menials of the castle, true,

Is ripe for mutinous debate. And stubborn to their charge, though few

He tuned his strings e'en now-again The wall to scale-the moat to cross

He wakes them, with a blither strain.” The wicket-grate the inner fosse"

XXX. Fool! if we blench for toys like these,

BONG.--ALLEN-A-DALE, On what fair guerdon can we seize!

Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning, Our hardiest venture, to explore

Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Some wretched peasant's fenceless door,

Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, And the best prize we bear away,

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. The earnings of his sordid day."

Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale -"Awhile thy hasty taunt forbear:

And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. In sight of road more sure and fair,

The baron of Ravensworth 12 prances in pride, Thou would'st not choose, in blindfold wrath,

And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, Or wantonness, a desperate path?

The mere for his net, and the land for his game, Deer in reason.

The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; I.

Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse, • bre iess free to lord Dacre than Allan-a-Dale! Near Startforth high they paid their vovi, Amenaze sale was ne'er belted a knight,

Remembered Thor's victorious fame, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as| And gave the dell the thunderer's name.

Alleo-a-Dale is po baron or lord,

Yet scald or kemper erred, I ween,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; Who gave that soft and quiet scene,
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, With all its varied light and sbade,
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmorel3 meets Allen- And every little sunny glade,

And the blith brook that strolls along
Allen-a-Dale to bis wooing is come;

Its pebbled bed with summer song, The mother, she asked of his household and home; To the grim god of blood and scar, * Tao' the castle of Richmond stands fair on the The grisly king of northern war. hill;

O better were its banks assigned My ball, ” quoth bold 'Allen, “shows gallanter To spirits of a gentler kind! still;

For, where the thicket-groups recede, "Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so and the rathe primrose decks the mead, pale,

The velvet grass seems carpet meet And with all its bright spangles !” said Allen-a-|For the light fairies' lively feet. Dale.

Yon tufted kooll, with daisies strown, The father was steel, and the mother was stone;

Might make proud Oberon a throne, They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone!

While, hidden in the thicket pigh, But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry!

mei Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly; He had laughed on the lass with his bonoy black

And where profuse the wood-veitch clings

Round ash and elm in verdant rings, eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,

| Its pale and azure pencilled flower And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dále.

Should canopy Titania's bower.

JI. “Thou seest that, whether sad or gay,

Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade, Love miogles ever in his lay.

But skirting every sunny glade, But when bis bovish wayward fit

In fair variety of green Is o'er, he hath address and wit;

The woodland lends its sylvan screen. O! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape

Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak, Each dialect, each various shape.”

Its boughs by weight of ages broke; “Nay, then, to aid thy project, Gay

And towers erect, in sable spire, Soft! who comes here?"-"My trusty spy, The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire; Speak, Hamlin! bast thou lodged our deer?”14 The drooping ash and birch, between, “I bare-but two fair stags are near;

Hang their fair tresses o'er the green, I watched her as she slowly strayed

And all beneath at random grow, From Eglistone up Thorsgill glade:

Each coppice dwarf of varied show, But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side,

Or round the stems profusely twined, And then young Redmond in bis pride

Fling summer odours on the wind. Shot down to meet them on their way;

Such varied group Urbino's hand Much, as it seemed, was theirs to say:

Round him of Tarsus nobly planned, There's time to pitch both toil and net,

What time he bade proud Athens own Before their path be homeward set.”

On Mars's mount the God unknown! A hurried and a whispered speech

Then gray Philosophy stood pigh, Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach,

Though bent by age, in spirit bigh; Who, turning to the robber band,

There rose the scar seamed veteran's spear, Bade Tour the bravest take the brand.

There Grecian Beauty bent to hear,

While childhood at her foot was placed, CANTO IV.

Or clung delighted to her waist.

iv. WHEN Denmark's raven soared on high,

“ And rest we here,” Matilda said, Triumpbant through Northumbrian sky,

And sate her in the varying shade. Till, bovering near, her fatal croak

“ Chance-met, we well may steal an hour, Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke,

To friendship due from fortune's power. And the broad shadow of her wing

Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend Blackened each cataract and spring,

Thy counsel to thy sister friend; Where Tees io tumult leaves his source,

And Redmond, thou, at my behest, Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force; 2 No farther urge thy desperate quest, Beneath the shade the Northmen came,

For to my care a charge is left, Fixed on each vale a Runic name, 3

Dangerous to one of aid bereft, Reared high their altars' rugged stone,

Well nigh an orphan, and alone, And gave their gods the land they won.

Captive her sire, her house o'ertbrown.” Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, | Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, And one sweet brooklet's silver line,

Beside her on the turf she placed; Aod Woden's croft did title gain

Then paused, with downcast look and eye, Prom the stern father of the slain!

Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. But to the monarch of the mace.

Her conscious diffidence he saw, That beld in fight the foremost place,

Drew backward as in modest awe,

VIL. Years sped away. On Rokeby's head Some touch of early snow was shed; Calm he enjoyed, 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 whitened Stanmore's Stormy height, The chase was o'er, the stag was killed, In Rokeby-hall the cups were filled, 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 prayed; The porter answered to the call, And instant rushed into the hall A man, whose aspect and attire Startled the circle by the fire.


And sate a little space removed,
Unmarked to gaze on her he loved.

Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair,
Half hid and half revealed to view
Her full dark eye of hazel hue.
The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That 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 expressed
Aught that waked feeling in her breast,
The mantling blood in ready play
Rivalled 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 downcasteye;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resigned;
'Tis that which Roman art has given,
To mark their maiden queen of heaven.
ln 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 timc along,
Full oft her doating sire would call
His Maud the merriest of them all.
But days of war, and civil crime,
Allowed but ill such festal time,
And her soft pensiveness of brow
Had deepened 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 lowered around the lovely maid,
To darken her dejection's shade.

VI. Who has not beard-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 soil, And reigned a prince in Ulster's soil? But chief arose his victor pride, When that brave marshal fought and died 6 And Avon-Duff to ocean bore His billows, red with Saxon gore. 'Twas first in that disastrous fight, Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. There had they fallen amongst the rest, But pity touched a chieftain's breast; The tavist he to great O'Neale, 6 He checked 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, Showed them the chase of wolf and deer, And, when a fitting time was come, Safe and unransomed sent them home, Loaded with many a gift, to prove A generous foe's respect and love.

His plaited hair in elf-locks spready Around his bare and matted head; On leg and thigh, close stretched and trim His vesture showed the sinewy limb: In saffron died, a linen vest Was frequent folded round his breast; A mantle long and loose he wore, Shaggy with ice, and stained with gore. He clasped a burthen to his heart, And, resting on a knotted dart, The snow from hair and beard he shook, And round him gazed with wildered look; | Then up the hall, with staggering pace, He hastened 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:S “ 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.”

IX. His look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale, He sunk when he had told his tale; For, bid beneath his mantle wide, A mortal wound was in his side. Vain was all aid-in terror wild, And sorrow, screamed the orphan child. Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes, And faintly strove to sooth his cries; All reckless of his dying pain, He blest, and blest him o'er again!


And kissed the little hands outspread,

How at his fall the bugle rung, And kissed and crossed the infant head,

Till rock and green-wood answer flung, And, in his native tongue and phrase,

Then blesses her, that man can find Prayed to each saint to watch his days;

A pastime of such savage kind! Then all his strength together drew,

XUI. The charge to Rokeby to renew.

But Redmond knew to weave his tale When half was faltered from his breast,

So well with praise of wood and dale, And half by dying signs expressed,

And knew so well each point to trace, “* Bless thee, O'Neil!” he faintly said,

Gives living interest to the chase,
And thus the faithful spirit filed.

And knew so well o'er all to throw

His spirit's wild romantic glow, 'Twas long ere soothing might prevail

That, while she blamed, and while she feared, Upon the child to end the tale;

She loved each venturous tale she heard. And then he said, that from his home

Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain His grandsire had been forced to roam,

To bower and ball their steps restrain, Which had not been if Redmond's hand

Together they explored the page Had but had strength to draw the brand,

Of glowing bard or gifted sage; The brand of Lenaugh More the red,

Oft, placed the evening fire beside, That hung beside the gray wolf's head.

The minstrel art alternate tried, Twas from his broken phrase descried,

While glad some harp and lively lay His foster-father was his guide,

Bade winter-night Ait fast away: Who, in bis charge, from Ulster bore

Thus from their childhood blending still Letters, and gifts a goodly store;

| Their sport, their study, and their skill, But ruffians met them in the wood,

A union of the soul they prove, Ferraught in battle boldly stood,

But must not think that it was love. Till wounded and o'erpowered at length,

But, though they dared not, envious Fame And stripped of all, his failing strength

Soon dared to give that union name; Just bore him here and then the child

And when so often, side by side, Renewed again his moaning wild.

From year to year the pair she eyed,

She sometimes blamed the good old knight,

As dull of ear and dim of sight,
The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows, Sometimes his purpose would declare,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;

That young O'Neale should wed his heir. When next the summer breeze comes by,

XIV. And waves the bush, the flower is dry;

The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise Won by their care, the orphan child

And bandage from the lovers' eyes; Soon on his new protectors smiled,

'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son, With dimpled cheek and eye so fair, Through his thick curls of faxen hair.

Had Rökeby's favour well nigh won.

Now must they meet with change of cheer, But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,

With mutual looks of shame and fear; When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;

Now must Matilda stray apart, Twas his, with elder brother's pride,

To school ber disobedient heart; Matilda's tottering steps to guide;

And Redmond now alope must rue His native lays in Irish tongue,

The love he never can subdue. To sooth her infant ear, he sung,

But factions rose, and Rokeby sware, And primrose twined with daisy fair,

No rebel's son should wed his heir;
To form a chaplet for her hair.

And Redmond, nurtured while a child
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,
The children still were hand in hand,

In many a bard's traditions wild,

Now sought the lonely wood or stream, And good sir Richard smiling eyed

To cherish there a happier dream, The early knot so kindly tied.

Of maiden won by sword or lance,

As in the regions of romance; But summer months bring wilding shoot

And count the heroes of his line, From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;

Great Nial of the pledges nine, 10 Aod years draw on our human span,

Shane-Dymas wild, 11 and Geraldine, 12 From child to boy, from boy to man;

And Coonan-More, who vowed his race And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen

For ever to the fight and chase, A gallant boy in hunter's green.

And cursed him, of his lineage born, He loves to wake the felon boar,

Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn, In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,

Or leave the mountain and the wold, And loves, against the deer so dun,

To shroud himself in castle hold. To draw the shaft, or lift the gun;

From such examples hope he drew,
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,

And brightened as the trumpet blew.
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,
And down its clustered stores to hail,

If brides were won by heart and blade,
Where young Matilda holds her veil.

Redmond had both his cause to aid, And she, whose veil receives the shower,

And all beside of nurture rare Is altered too, anıl knows her power;

That might beseem a baron's heir. Assumes a monitress's pride,

Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife, Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide, On Rokeby's lord bestowed his life, Yet listens still to hear him iell

And well did Rokeby's generous knight How the grim wild-boar fought and fell, | Young Redmond for the deed requite.

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