And the buff coat, in ample fold, Mantles his form's gigantic mould. (3) Full slender auswer deigned he To Oswald's anxious courtesy, But mark'd, by a disdainful smile, He saw and scornd the petty wile, When Oswald changed the torch's place, Anxious that on the soldier's face Its partial lustre might be thrown, To show his looks, yet hide his own. His guest, the while, laid slow aside The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide, And to the torch glanced broad and clear The corslet of a cuirassier. Then from his brows the casque he drew, And from the dank plume dash'd the dew, From gloves of mail relieved his hands, And spread them to the kindling brands, And, turning to the genial board, Without a health, or pledge, or word Of meet and social reverence said, Decply he drank, and fiercely fed ; As free from ceremony's sway, As famish'd wolf that tears his prey.

Conscience, anticipating time,
Already rues the unacted crime,
And calls her furies forth to shake
The sounding scourge and hissing snake;
While her poor victim's outward throes
Bear witness to his mcntal woes,
And show what tesson may be read
Beside a sinner's restless bed.

III.
Thus Oswald's labouring feelings trace
Strange changes in his sleeping face,
Rapid and ominous as these
With which the moon-beams tinge the Tees.
There might be seen of shame the blush,
There anger's dark and fiercer flush,
While the perturbed sleeper's hand
Seem'd grasping dagger-knife or brand.
Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh,
The tear in the half-opening eye,
The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd
That grief was busy in his breast;
Nor paused that mood—a sudden start
Impell’d the life-blood from the heart;
Features convulsed, and mutterings dread,
Show terror reigos in sorrow's stead;
That pang the painful slumber broke,
And Oswald, with a start, awoke.

IV.
He woke, and fear'd again to close
His eye-lids in such dire repose;
He woke,- to watch the lamp, and tell
From hour to hour the castle-bell,
Or listen to the owlet's cry,
Or the sad brecze that whistles by,
Or cateh, by fits, the luneless rhyme
With which the warder cheats the time,
And envying think how, when the sun
Bids the poor soldier's watch be done,
Couch'd on his straw, and fancy-free,
He sleeps like careless infancy.

V.
Far townward sounds a distant tread,
And Oswald, starting from his bed,
Hath caught it, though no human ear,
Unsharpened by revenge and fear,
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, (2)
Until it reach'd the castle-bank.
Now nigh and plain the sound appears,
The warder's challenge now be hears.
Then clanking chains and levers tell,
That o'er the moat the draw-bridge fell,
And, in the castle-court below,
Voices are heard, and torches glow,
As marshalling the stranger's way,
Straight for the room where Oswald lay;
The cry was,- « Tidings from the host,
Of weight-a messenger comes post.»
Stilling the tumult of his breast,
His answer Oswald thus express'd-
« Bring food and wine, and trim the fire;
Admit the stranger, and retire.»-

VI.
The stranger came with heavy stride:
The morion's plumes his visage lide,

VII. With deep impatience, tinged with fear, His host beheld him

gorge

his cheer,
And quaff the full carouse, that lent
His brow a Gercer hardiment.
Now Oswald stood a space aside,
Now paced the room with hasty stride,
In feverish agony to learn
Tidings of deep and dread concern,
Cursing each moment that his guest
Protracted o'er his ruffian feast.
Yet, viewing with alarm, at last,
The end of that uncouth repast,
Almost he seem'd their haste to rue,
As, at his sign, his train withdrew,
And left him with the stranger,

free
To question of his mystery.
Then did his silence long proclaim
A struggle between fear and shame.

VIII. Much in the stranger's mien appears, To justify suspicious fears. On his dark face a scorching clime, And toil, had done the work of time, (4) Roughen'd the brow, the temples bared, And sable hairs with silver shared, Yet left-what age alone could tameThe lip of pride, the eye

of Name, The full-drawn lip that upward curld, The eye, that seem'd to scorn the world. That lip had terror never blanch'd; Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quench'd The flash severe of swartlıy glow, That mock'd at pain, and knew not woe; Toured to danger's direst form, Tornade and carthquake, flood and storm, Death had be seen by sudden blow, By wasting plague, by tortures slow, By mine or breach, by steel or ball, knew all his shapes, and scorn'd them all.

Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay,
And must have fought-how went the day?»—

XII. « Wouldst hear the tale?-On Marston heath Met, front to front, the ranks of death ; (5) Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and now, Fired was each eye, and flush'd each brow; On either side loud clamours ring, "God and the Cause!–God and the King! Right English all, they rush'd to blows, With nought to win, and all to lose. I could have laugh'd—but lack'd the timeTo see, in phrenesy sublime, How the fierce zealots fought and bled, For king or state, as humour led; Some for a dream of public good, Some for church-tippet, gown, and hood, Draining their veins, in death to claim A patriot's or a martyr's name.Led Bertram Risingham the hearts, That counter'd there on adverse parts, No superstitious fool had I Sought El Dorados in the sky! Chili had heard me through her states, And Lima oped her silver gates, Rich Mexico I had march'd through, And sack'd the splendours of Peru, Till sunk Pizarro's daring name, And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame!»-

Still from the purpose wilt thou stray! Good gentle friend, how went the day?»

IX. But yet, though Bertram's harden'd look, Unmoved, could blood and danger brook, Still worse than apathy had place On his swart brow and callous face; For evil passions, cherish'd long, Had plough'd them with impressions strong. All that gives gloss lo sin, all gay Light folly, pass'd with youth away, But rooted stood, in manhood's hour, The weeds of vice without their flower. And yet the soil in which they grew, Had it been tamed when life was new, Had depth and vigour to bring forth The hardier fruits of virtuous worth. Not that, e'en then, his heart had known The gentler feelings' kindlier tone; But lavish waste had been refined To bounty in his chasten d mind, And lust of gold, that waste to feed, Been lost in love of glory's meed, And, frantic then no more, his pride Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide.

X. Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd, Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter stain d, Sudl knew his daring soul to soar, And mastery o'er the mind he bore ; For meaner guilt, or heart less hard, Quail'd beneath Bertram's bold regard. And this felt Oswald, while in vain He strove, by many a winding train, To lure his sullen guest to show, Unask'd, the news he long'd to know, While on far other subject hung His heart, than falter'd from his congue. Yet nought for that his guest did deign To pote or spare his secret pain, But still, in stern and stubborn sort, Return'd him answer dark and short, Or started from the theme, to range In loose digression will and strange, And forced the embarrass'd host to buy, By query close, direct reply.

XI. Awhile he glozed upon the cause Of commons, covenant, and laws, And church reformid-but felt rebuke Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look. Then stammer'd—« Has a field been fought? Has Bertram news of battle brought ? For sure a soldier, famed so far In foreign fields for feats of war, On eve of fight ne'er left the host, Until the field were won or lost.» « Here, in your towers by circling Tees, You, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease; Why deem it strange that others come To share such safe and easy home, From fields where danger, death, and toil, Are the reward of civil broil ?»— Nay, mock not, friend! since well we know The near advances of the foe, To mar our northern army's work, Encamp'd before beleaguer'd York;

XIII.
--« Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound,
And good where goblets dance the round,
Though gentle ne'er was joind, till now,
With rugged Bertram's breast and brow. -
But I resume.

The battle's rage
Was like the strife which currents wage,
Where Orinoco, in his pride,
Rolls to the main no tribute tide,
But 'gainst broad ocean urges far
A rival sea of roaring war;
While, in ten thousand eddies driven,
The billows fling their foam to lieaven.
And the pale pilot seeks in vain,
Where rolls the river, where the main.
Even thus, upon the bloody field,
The eddying tides of conflict wheeld
Ambiguous till that beart of flame,
Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came,
Hurling against our spears a line
Of gallants, fiery as their wine;
Then ours, though stubborn in their zeal,
In zeal's despite began to reel.
What wouldst thou more?-in tumult tost,
Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost.
A thousand

men,

who drew the sword For both the Houses and the Word, Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, and dowo, To curb the crosier and the crown, Now, stark and stiff, lie stretch'd in gore, And ne'er shall rail at mitre more.Thus fared it, when I left the fight, With the good cause and commons' right.»—

1

XIV. « Disastrous news !» dark Wycliffe said; Assumed despondence bent his head, While troubled joy was in his eye, The well-feign'd sorrow to belie.« Disastrous news !- when necded most, Told ye not that your chiefs were lost? Complete the woeful tale, and say, Who fell upon that fatal day; What leaders of repute and name Bought by their death a deathless fame. If such my direst foeman's doom, My tears shall dew his honour'd tomb.No answer?-Friend, of all our host, Thou know'st whom I should hate the most ; Whom thou too, once wert wont to hate, Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate.» With look unmoved, -« Of friend or foe, Aught,» answer'd Bertram, « wouldst thou know, Demand in simple terms and plain, A soldier's answer shalt thou gain; For question dark, or riddle highi, I have nor judgment nor reply.»--'

Philip of Mortham is with those
Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes;
Or whom more sure revenge attends,
If numbers with ungrateful friends.
As was his wont, ere battle glow'd,
Along the marsball'd ranks he rode,
And wore his vizor up the while.
I saw his melancholy smile,
When, full opposed in front, he knew
Where Rokeby's kindred banner flew.

And thus," he said, “will friends divide ! »–
I heard, and thought how, side by side,
We two had turn'd the battle's tide,
In many a well-debated field,
Where Bertram's breast was Philip's shield.
I thought on Darien's deserts pale,
Where death bestrides the evening gale,
How o'er my friend my cloak I threw,
And fenceless faced the deadly dew;.
I thought on Quariana's cliff,
Where, rescued from our foundering skiff,
Through the white breakers' wrath I bore
Exhausted Mortham to the shore ;
And when his side an arrow found,
I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound.
These thoughts like torrents rush'd along,
To sweep away my purpose strong.

xy.
The wrath his art and fear suppress'd
Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast ;
And brave from man so meanly born
Roused his hereditary scorn.

Wretch! hast thou paid thy bloody debt?
Puilip of Mortiam, lives he yet?
False to thy patron or thine oath,
Trait'rous or perjured, one or both,
Slave! hast thou kept thy promise plight,
To slay thy leader in the fight?»—
Then from his seat the soldier sprung,
And Wycliffe's hand he strongly wrung;
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail,
Forced the red blood-drop from the nail-
« A health !» he cried; and, ere he quaffd,
Flung from him Wycliffe's hand, and laugh'd:

-« Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy heart! Now play'st thou well thy genuine part! Worthy, but for thy craven fear, Like me to roam a buccaneer. What reck'st thou of the cause divine, If Mortham's wealth and lands be thine ? What carest thou for beleaguer'd York, If this good hand have done its work? Or what though Fairfax and his best Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast, Jf Philip Mortham with them lie, Lending his life-blood to the dye ? Sit then! and as 'mid comrades free Carousing after victory, When tales are told of blood and fear, That boys and women shrink to hear, From point to point I frankly tell The deed of death 'as it befel.

XVII. « Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. When Mortham bade me, as of yore, Be near him in the battle's roar, I scarcely saw the spears laid low, I scarcely heard the trumpets blow; Lost was the war in inward strife, Debating Mortham's death or life. 'T was then I thought, how, lured to come As partner of his wealth and home, Years of piratic wandering o'er, With him I sought our native shore. But Mortham's lord grew far estranged From the bold hearts with whom he ranged; Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears, Sadden'd and dimmid descending years; The wily priests their victim sought, And damn'd each free-born deed and thought. Then must I seek another home, My license shook his sober dome; If gold he gave, in one wild day I revell'd thrice the sum away. An idle outcast then I stray'd, Unfit for tillage or for trade, Deemid, like the steel of rusted lance, Useless and dangerous at once. The women fear'd my hardy look, At my approach the peaceful shook ; The merchant saw my glance of flame, And lock'd his hoards when Bertram came; Each child of coward peace kept far From the neglected son of war.

XVI. « When purposed vengeance 1 forego, Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe; And when an insult I forgive, Then brand me as a slave, and live!

XVIII. « But civil discord gave the call, And made my trade the trade of all.