XIII.

Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword,
To give each Chief and every field its fame:
Hark! Albuera thunders BERESFORD,

And red Barossa shouts for dauntless GRÆME!
O for a verse of tumult and of flame,

Bold as the bursting of their cannon sound,
To bid the world re-echo to their fame!
For never, upon gory battle-ground,

With conquest's well-bought wreath were braver victors

crowned!

XIV.

O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays,

Who brought a race regenerate to the field, Roused them to emulate their father's praise,

Tempered their headlong rage, their courage steeled, And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield,

And gave new edge to Lusitania's sword, And taught her sons forgotten arms to wieldShivered my harp, and burst its every chord, If it forgot thy worth, victorious BERESFORD!

XV.

Not on that bloody field of battle won,

Though Gaul's proud legions rolled like mist away,
Was half his self-devoted valour shown,-

He gaged but life on that illustrious day;
But when he toiled those squadrons to array,
Who fought like Briton's in the bloody game,
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay,

He braved the shafts of censure and of shame,
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier's fame.

XVI.

Nor be his praise o'erpassed who strove to hide
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's wound,
Whose wish, Heaven for his country's weal denied ;
Danger and fate he sought, but glory found.
From clime to clime, where'er war's trumpets sound,
The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia ! still
Thine was his thought in march and tented ground;
He dreamed 'mid Alpine cliffs of Athole's hill,
And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's lovely rill.

XVII.

O hero of a race renowned of old,

Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell, Since first distinguished in the onset bold,

Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell! By Wallace's side it rung the Southron's knell, Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame, Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors tell,

But ne'er from pronder field arose the name,

Than when wild Ronda learned the conquering shout of GRAME!

XVIII.

But all too long, through seas unknown and dark, (With Spenser's parable I close my tale),

By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark;
And landward now I drive before the gale:
And now the blue and distant shore I hail,
And nearer now I see the port expand,
And now I gladly furl my weary sail,

And, as the prow light touches on the strand,
I strike my red-cross flag, and bind my skiff to land.

ROKEBY.

A Poem.

IN SIX CANTOS.

ΤΟ

JOHN B. S. MORRITT ESQ.,

This Poem,

THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL

DEMESNE OF ROKEBY,

IS INSCRIBED,

IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP.

ADVERTISEMENT TO FIRST EDITION, 1813.

THE scene of this poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to the adjacent fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in that vicinity.

The time occupied by the action is a space of five days, three of which are supposed to elapse between the end of the Fifth and beginning of the Sixth Canto.

The date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great battle of Marston Moor, 3d July 1644. This period of public confusion has been chosen, without any purpose of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Civil War, but only as affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious Narrative now presented to the Public.

ROKEBY.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

THE Moon is in her summer glow,
But hoarse and high the breezes blow,
And, racking o'er her face, the cloud
Varies the tincture of her shroud;
On Barnard's towers, and Teeg's stream,
She changes as a guilty dream,

When Conscience, with remorse and fear,
Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career.
Her light seems now the blush of shame,
Seems now fierce anger's darker flame,
Shifting that shade, to come and go,
Like apprehension's hurried glow;
Then sorrow's livery dims the air,
And dies in darkness, like despair.
Such varied hues the warder sees
Reflected from the woodland Tees,
Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth,
Sees the clouds mustering in the north,
Hears, upon turret-roof and wall,
By fits the plashing rain-drop fall,
Lists to the breeze's boding sound,
And wraps his shaggy mantle round.

II.

Those towers, which in the changeful gleam
Throw murky shadows on the stream,
Those towers of Barnard hold a guest,
The emotions of whose troubled breast,
In wild and strange confusion driven,
Rival the flitting rack of heaven.
Ere sleep stern OSWALD's senses tied,
Oft had he changed his weary side,
Composed his limbs, and vainly sought
By effort strong to banish thought.