Plying war's desultory trade, Incursion, flight, and ambuscade, Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son, At first the bloody game begun.
The Indian, prowling for his prey, Who hears the settlers track his way, And knows in distant forest far Camp his red brethren of the war — He, when each double and disguise To baffle the pursuit he tries, Low crouching now his head to hide Where swampy streams through rushes glide,
Now covering with the withered leaves The foot-prints that the dew receives He, skilled in every sylvan guile, Knows not, nor tries, such various wile As Risingham when on the wind Arose the loud pursuit behind. In Redesdale his youth had heard Each art her wily dalesman dared, When Rooken-edge and Redswair high To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry, Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear, And Lid'sdale riders in the rear; And well his venturous life had proved The lessons that his childhood loved.
Oft had he shown in climes afar Each attribute of roving war; The sharpened ear, the piercing eye, The quick resolve in danger nigh; The speed that in the flight or chase Outstripped the Charib's rapid race; The steady brain, the sinewy limb, To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim; The iron frame, inured to bear Each dire inclemency of air, Nor less confirmed to undergo Fatigue's faint chill and famine's throe. These arts he proved, his life to save, In peril oft by land and wave, On Arawaca's desert shore, Or where La Plata's billows roar, When oft the sons of vengeful Spain Tracked the marauder's steps in vain. These arts, in Indian warfare tried, Must save him now by Greta's side.
The echo of his footsteps drowned. But if the forest verge he nears, There trample steeds, and glimmer spears; If deeper down the copse he drew, He heard the rangers' loud halloo, Beating each cover while they came, As if to start the sylvan game. 'T was then-like tiger close beset At every pass with toil and net, 'Countered where'er he turns his glare By clashing arms and torches' flare, Who meditates with furious bound To burst on hunter, horse and hound 'T was then that Bertram's soul arose, Prompting to rush upon his foes: But as that crouching tiger, cowed By brandished steel and shouting crowd, Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, Bertram suspends his purpose stern, And crouches in the brake and fern, Hiding his face lest foemen spy The sparkle of his swarthy eye.
Well Risingham young Redmond knew, And much he marvelled that the crew Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead 130 Were by that Mortham's foeman led; For never felt his soul the woe That wails a generous foeman low, Far less that sense of justice strong That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong. But small his leisure now to pause; Redmond is first, whate'er the cause: And twice that Redmond came so near Where Bertram couched like hunted deer, The very boughs his steps displace Rustled against the ruffian's face, Who desperate twice prepared to start, And plunge his dagger in his heart! But Redmond turned a different way, And the bent boughs resumed their sway, And Bertram held it wise, unseen, Deeper to plunge in coppice green. Thus, circled in his coil, the snake, When roving hunters beat the brake, Watches with red and glistening eye, Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh, With forked tongue and venomed fang Instant to dart the deadly pang; But if the intruders turn aside, Away his coils unfolded glide, And through the deep savannah wind, Some undisturbed retreat to find.
But Bertram, as he backward drew, And heard the loud pursuit renew, And Redmond's hollo on the wind, Oft muttered in his savage mind - 'Redmond O'Neale! were thou and I Alone this day's event to try,
With not a second here to see But the gray cliff and oaken tree, That voice of thine that shouts so loud Should ne'er repeat its summons proud! No! nor e'er try its melting power Again in maiden's summer bower.' Eluded, now behind him die Faint and more faint each hostile cry; He stands in Scargill wood alone, Nor hears he now a harsher tone Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry, Or Greta's sound that murmurs by; And on the dale, so lone and wild, The summer sun in quiet smiled.
He listened long with anxious heart, Ear bent to hear and foot to start, And, while his stretched attention glows, 180 Refused his weary frame repose. 'T was silence all- he laid him down, Where purple heath profusely strown, And throatwort with its azure bell, And moss and thyme his cushion swell. There, spent with toil, he listless eyed The course of Greta's playful tide; Beneath her banks now eddying dun, Now brightly gleaming to the sun, As, dancing over rock and stone, In yellow light her currents shone, Matching in hue the favorite gem Of Albin's mountain-diadem. Then, tired to watch the currents play, He turned his weary eyes away To where the bank opposing showed Its huge, square cliffs through shaggy
One, prominent above the rest, Reared to the sun its pale gray breast; Around its broken summit grew The hazel rude and sable yew; A thousand varied lichens dyed Its waste and weather-beaten side, And round its rugged basis lay, By time or thunder rent away, Fragments that from its frontlet torn Were mantled now by verdant thorn. Such was the scene's wild majesty That filled stern Bertram's gazing eye.
In sullen mood he lay reclined, Revolving in his stormy mind The felon deed, the fruitless guilt, His patron's blood by treason spilt;
A crime, it seemed, so dire and dread That it had power to wake the dead. Then, pondering on his life betrayed By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, In treacherous purpose to withhold, So seemed it, Mortham's promised gold, A deep and full revenge he vowed On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud; Revenge on Wilfrid - on his sire Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire! If, in such mood as legends say, And well believed that simple day – The Enemy of Man has power To profit by the evil hour,
Here stood a wretch prepared to change His soul's redemption for revenge! But though his vows with such a fire Of earnest and intense desire For vengeance dark and fell were made As well might reach hell's lowest shade, No deeper clouds the grove embrowned, No nether thunders shook the ground; The demon knew his vassal's heart, And spared temptation's needless art.
Oft, mingled with the direful theme, Came Mortham's form was it a dream? Or had he seen in vision true
That very Mortham whom he slew? Or had in living flesh appeared The only man on earth he feared? To try the mystic cause intent, His eyes that on the cliff were bent 'Countered at once a dazzling glance, Like sunbeam flashed from sword or lance. At once he started as for fight, But not a foeman was in sight;
He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse, 250 He heard the river's sounding course; The solitary woodlands lay, As slumbering in the summer ray, He gazed, like lion roused, around, Then sunk again upon the ground. Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam, Glanced sudden from the sparkling stream; Then plunged him in his gloomy train Of ill-connected thoughts again, Until a voice behind him cried, 'Bertram! well met on Greta side.'
'Then list. Not far there lurk a crew Of trusty comrades stanch and true, Gleaned from both factions - Roundheads,
freed From cant of sermon and of creed, And Cavaliers, whose souls like mine Spurn at the bonds of discipline. Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold A warfare of our own to hold Than breathe our last on battle-down For cloak or surplice, mace or crown. Our schemes are laid, our purpose set, A chief and leader lack we yet. Thou art a wanderer, it is said, For Mortham's death thy steps waylaid, Thy head at price - -so say our spies, Who ranged the valley in disguise. Join then with us: though wild debate And wrangling rend our infant state, Each, to an equal loath to bow, Will yield to chief renowned as thou.' -
'Even now,' thought Bertram, passion- stirred,
'I called on hell, and hell has heard! What lack I, vengeance to command, But of stanch comrades such a band? This Denzil, vowed to every evil, Might read a lesson to the devil.
Well, be it so! each knave and fool Shall serve as my revenge's tool.'Aloud, 'I take thy proffer, Guy, But tell me where thy comrades lie.' 'Not far from hence,' Guy Denzil said; 'Descend and cross the river's bed Where rises yonder cliff so gray.' 'Do thou,' said Bertram, 'lead the way.' Then muttered, 'It is best make sure; Guy Denzil's faith was never pure.' He followed down the steep descent, Then through the Greta's streams they went;
And when they reached the farther shore They stood the lonely cliff before.
With wonder Bertram heard within The flinty rock a murmured din; But when Guy pulled the wilding spray And brambles from its base away, He saw appearing to the air
A little entrance low and square, Like opening cell of hermit lone, Dark winding through the living stone. Here entered Denzil, Bertram here; And loud and louder on their ear, As from the bowels of the earth, Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. Of old the cavern strait and rude In slaty rock the peasant hewed; And Brignall's woods and Scargill's wave E'en now o'er many a sister cave, Where, far within the darksome rift, The wedge and lever ply their thrift. But war had silenced rural trade, And the deserted mine was made The banquet-hall and fortress too Of Denzil and his desperate crew. There Guilt his anxious revel kept, There on his sordid pallet slept Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drained
Still in his slumbering grasp retained; 350 Regret was there, his eye still cast With vain repining on the past; Among the feasters waited near Sorrow and unrepentant Fear, And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven,
With his own crimes reproaching Heaven; While Bertram showed amid the crew The Master-Fiend that Milton drew.
Behold the group by the pale lamp That struggles with the earthy damp. By what strange features Vice hath known To single out and mark her own! Yet some there are whose brows retain Less deeply stamped her brand and stain. See yon pale stripling! when a boy, A mother's pride, a father's joy! Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls reclined, An early image fills his mind: The cottage once his sire's he sees, Embowered upon the banks of Tees; He views sweet Winston's woodland scene, And shares the dance on Gainford-green. A tear is springing-but the zest Of some wild tale or brutal jest Hath to loud laughter stirred the rest. On him they call, the aptest mate For jovial song and
feat: Fast flies his dream with dauntless
As one victorious o'er despair, He bids the ruddy cup go round Till sense and sorrow both are drowned; And soon in merry wassail he, The life of all their revelry, Peals his loud song!-The muse has
'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen.' 'If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town,
'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 450 And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen.'
When Edmund ceased his simple song, Was silence on the sullen throng. Till waked some ruder mate their glee With note of coarser minstrelsy. But far apart in dark divan, Denzil and Bertram many a plan Of import foul and fierce designed, While still on Bertram's grasping mind The wealth of murdered Mortham hung; Though half he feared his daring tongue, When it should give his wishes birth, Might raise a spectre from the earth!
At length his wondrous 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 470 The visionary tales of eld!
His awe for Bertram scarce repressed The unbeliever's sneering jest,
''T were 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?'-
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