When Denmark’s Raven soared on high,
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky,
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak
Bade Reged’s Britons dread the yoke,
And the broad shadow of her wing
Blackened each cataract and spring,
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source.
Thundering o’er Caldron and High–Force;
Beneath the shade the Northmen came,
Fixed on each vale a Runic name,
Reared high their ahars’ rugged stone,
And gave their Gods the land they won.
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine,
And one sweet brooklet’s silver line;
But to the Monarch of the Mace,
That held in fight the foremost place,
To Odin’s son, and Sifia’s spouse.
Near Startforth high they paid their vows.
Remembered Thor’s victorious fame.
And gave the dell the Thunderer’s name.
Yet Scald or Kemper erred, I ween,
Who gave that soft and quiet scene,
With all its varied light and shade,
And every little sunny glade,
And the blithe brook that strolls along
Its pebbled bed with summer song*,
To the grim God of blood and scar,
The grisly King of Northern War.
O better were its banks assigned
To spirits of a gentler kind!
For, where the thicket-groupes recede,
And the rathe primrose decks the mead,
The velvet grass seems carpet meet
For the light fairies’ lively feet.
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown,
Might make proud Oberon a throne.
While, hidden in the thicket nigh,
Puck should brood o’er his frolick sly;
And where profuse the woodveitch clink’s
Round ash and elm in verdant rings.
Its pale and azure-pencilled flower
Should canopy Titania’s bower.
Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade,
But, skirting every sunny glade,
In fair variety of green
The woodland lends its sylvan screen.
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak,
Its boughs by weight of ages broke;
And towers erect, in sable spire,
The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire;
The drooping ash and birch, between,
Hang their fair tresses o’er the green,
And all beneath, at random grow
Each coppice dwarf of varied show, .
Or, rovuid the stems profusely twined,
Fling summer odours on the wind.
Such varied groupe Urbino’s hand
Round Him of Tarsus nobly planned,
What time he bade proud Athens own
On Mars’s Mount the God Unknown!
Then grey Philosophy stood nigh.
Though bent by age, in spirit high;
There rose the scar-seamed Veteran’s spear,
There Grecian Beauty bent to hear,
While Childhood at her foot was placed,
Or clung delighted to her waist.
“And rest we here,” Matilda said.
And sate her in the varying shade.
“Chance-met, we well may steal an hour.
To friendship due from fortune’s power.
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend
Thy counsel to thy sister friend;
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest.
No farther urge thy desperate quest.
For to my care a charge is left,
Dangerous to one of aid bereft,
Well nigh an orphan, and alone,
Captive her sire, her house o’erthrown.” —
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced,
Beside her on the turf she placed,
Then paused, with downcast look and eye.
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh.
Her conscious diffidence he saw.
Drew backward as in modest awe,
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 eyelash dark and downcast eye;
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.
In hours of sport, that mood gave way
To Fancy’s light and frohc play,
And when the dance, or tale, or song.
In harmless mirth sped time 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.
Who has not heard — while Erin yet
Strove gainst the Saxon’s iron bit —
Who has not heard how brave O’Neale
In English blood embrued his steel,
Against St George’s cross blazed high
The banners of his Tanistry,
To fiery Essex gave the foil,
And reigned a prince in Ulster’s soil?
But chief arose his victor pride.
When that brave Marshal fought and died,
And Avon–Duffto 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 Tanist he to great O’Neale,
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 chace 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.
Years speed 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 Stanemore’s stormy height,
The chace 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.
His plaited hair in elf-locks spread
Around his bare and matted head;
On leg and thigh, close stretched and trim,
His vesture shewed the sinewy limb;
In saffron dyed, 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 beavity 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.
“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 on Erin’s bowl!
If any wrong the young O’Neale,
He bids thee think of 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.” —
His look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale.
He sunk when he had told his tale;
For, hid 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.
And kissed and crossed the infant head,
And, in his native tongue and phrase,
Prayed to each saint to watch his days;
Then all his strength together drew,
The charge to Rokeby to renew.
When half was faultered from his breast,
And half by dying signs expressed,
“Bless the O’Neale!” he faintly said,
And thus the faithful spirit fled.
’Twas long ere soothing might prevail
Upon the child to end the tale;
And then he said, that from his home
His grandsire had been forced to roam.
Which had not been if Redmond’s hand
Had but had strength to draw the brand,
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red,
That hung beside the grey wolf’s head. —
’Twas from his broken phrase descried,
His foster-father was his guide,
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore
Letters, and gifts a goodly store;
But ruffians met them in the wood,
Ferraught in battle boldly stood,
Till wounded and o’erpowered at length,
And stripped of all, his failing strength
Just bore him here — and then the child
Renewed again his moaning wild.
The tear, down Childhood’s cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Won by their care, the orphan child
Soon on his new protectors smiled,
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair.
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,
When Rokeby’s little maid was nigh;
’Twas his, with elder brother’s pride,
Matilda’s tottering steps to guide;
His native lays in Irish tongue,
To sooth her infant ear he sung,
And primrose twined with daisy fair.
To form a chaplet for her hair.
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet’s strand,
The children still were hand in hand,
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed
The early knot so kindly tied,
But summer months bring wilding shoot
From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;
And years draw on our human span,
From child to boy, from boy to man;
And soon m Rokeby’s woods is seen
A gallant boy in hunter’s groen.
He loves to wake the felon boar,
In his dark haunt on Greta s shore,
And loves, against the deer so dun,
To draw the shaft, or lift the giui;
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,
The hazel’s spreading boughs to climb,
And down its clustered stores to hail.
Where young Matilda holds her veil.
And she, whose veil receives the shower,
Is altered too, and knows her power;
Assumes a monitress’s pride.
Her Redmond’s dangerous sports to chide.
Yet listens still to hear him tell
How the grim wild-boar fought and fell.
How at his fall the bugle rung,
Till rock and greenwood answer flung;
Then blesses her, that man can find
A pastime of such savage kind!
But Redmond knew to weave his tale
So well with praise of wood and dale,
And knew so well each point to trace.
Gives living interest to the chace.
And knew so well o’er all to throw
His spirit’s wild romantic glow,
That, while she blamed, and while she feared,
She loved each venturous tale she heard.
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain
To bower and hail their steps restrain,
Together they explored the page
Of glowing bard or gifted sage,
Oft, placed the evening fire beside,
The minstrel art alternate tried,
While gladsome harp and lively lay
Bade winter-night flit fast away:
Thus from their childhood blending still
Their sport, their study, and their skill.
An union of the soul they prove,
But must not think that it was love.
But though they dared not, envious Fame
Soon dared to give that union name;
And when so often, side by side,
From year to year the pair she eyed.
She sometimes blamed the good old Knight,
As dull of ear and dim of sight.
Sometimes his purpose would declare.
That young O’Neale should wed his heir.
The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise
And bandage from the lovers’ eyes;
’Twas plain that Oswald, for his son,
Had Rokeby’s favour well nigh won.
Now must they meet with change of cheer,
With mutual looks of shame and fear;
Now must Matilda stray apart,
To school her disobedient heart;
And Redmond now alone must rue
The love he never can subdue.
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware.
No rebel’s son should wed his heir;
And Redmond, nurtured while a child
In many a bard’s traditions wild,
Now sought the lonely wood or stream,
To cherish there a happier dream,
Of maiden won by sword and lance,
As in the regions of romance;
And count the heroes of his line,
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,
Shane–Dymas wild, and Geraldine,
And Connan–More, who vowed his race
For ever to the fight and chace.
And cursed him, of his lineage born,
Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn,
Or leave the mountain and the wold,
To shroud himself in castled hold.
From such examples hope he drew.
And brightened as the trumpet blew.
If brides were won by heart and blade,
Redmond had both his cause to aid,
And all beside of nurture rare
That micht beseem a baron’s heir.
Turlough O’Neale, in Erin’s strife.
On Rokeby’s Lord bestowed his life,
And well did Rokeby’s generous knight
Young Redmond for the deed requite.
Nor was his liberal care and cost
Upon the gallant stripling lost:
Seek the North Riding broad and wide,
Like Redmond none could steed bestride;
From Tynemouth search to Cumberland,
Like Redmond none could wield a brand;
And then, of humour kind and free,
And bearing him to each degree
With frank and fearless courtesy,
There never youth was formed to steal
Upon the heart like brave O’Neale.
Sir Richard loved him as his son,
And when the days of peace were done,
And to the gales of war he gave
The banner of his sires to wave,
Redmond, distinguished by his care,
He chose that honoured flag to bear.
And named his page, the next degree
In that old time to chivalry.
In five pitched fields he well maintained
The honoured place his worth obtained.
And high was Redmond’s youthful name
Blazed in the roll of martial fame.
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight.
The eve had seen him dubbed a knight;
Twice, ‘mid the battle’s doubtful strife,
Of Rokeby’s lord he saved the life,
But when he saw him prisoner made.
He kissed and then resigned his blade,
And yielded him an easy prey
To those who led the Knight away.
Resolved Matilda’s sire should prove,
In prison, as in fight, his love.
When lovers meet in adverse hour,
’Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower,
A watry ray an instant seen
The darkly closing clouds between.
As Redmond on the turf reclined,
The past and present filled his mind:
“It was not thus,” Affection said,
“I dreamed of my return, dear maid!
Not thus, when, from thy trembling hand,
I took the banner and the brand.
When round me, as the bugles blew,
Their blades three hundred warriors drew.
And, while the standard I unrolled,
Clashed their bright arms with clamour bold.
Where is that banner now? — its pride
Lies whelmed in Ouze’s sullen tide!
Where now these warriors? — in their gore,
They cumber Marston’s dismal moor!
And what avails a useless brand.
Held by a captive’s shackled hand.
That only would his life retain,
To aid thy sire to bear his chain!” —
Thus Redmond to himself apart,
Nor lighter was his rival’s heart;
I or Wilfrid, while his generous soul
Disdained to profit by controul,
By many a sign could mark too plain.
Save with such aid, his hopes were vain.
But now Matilda’s accents stole
On the dark visions of their soul,
And bade their mournful musing fly,
Like mist before the zephyr s sigh.
“I need not to my friends recall,
How Mortham shunned my father’s hall;
A man of silence and of woe,
Yet ever anxious to bestow
On my poor self whate’er could prove
A kinsman’s confidence and love.
My feeble aid could sometimes chace
The clouds of sorrow for a space.
But, oftener, fixed beyond my power,
I marked his deep despondence lower.
One dismal cause, by all unguessed,
His fearful confidence confessed.
And twice it was my hap to see
Examples of that agony.
Which for a season can o’erstrain
And wreck the structure of the brain.
He had the awful power to know
The approaching mental overthrow,
And while his mind had courage yet
To struggle with the dreadful fit,
The victim writhed against its throes,
Like wretch beneath a murderer’s blows. This malady, I well could mark,
Sprung from some direful cause and dark;
But still he kept its source concealed.
Till arming for the civil field;
Then in my charge he bade me hold
A treasure huge of gems and gold.
With this disjointed dismal scroll
That tells the secret of his soul,
In such wild words as oft betray
A mind by anguish forced astray.
“Matilda! thou hast seen me start,
As if a dagger thrilled my heart,
When it has happ’d some casual phrase
Waked memory of my former days.
Believe, that few can backward cast
Their thought with pleasure on the past
But I! my youth was rash and vain,
And blood and rage my manhood stain.
And my grey hairs must now descend
To my cold grave without a friend!
Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown
Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known.
And must I lift the bloody veil,
That hides my dark and fatal tale!
I must — I will — Pale phantom, cease I
Leave me one little hour in peace!
Thus haunted, think’st thou I have skill
Thine own commission to fulfill?
Or, while thou point’ st, with gesture fierce.
Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse,
How can I paint thee as thou wert,
So fair in face, so warm in heart! —
“Yes, she was fair! — Matilda, thou
Hast a soft sadness on thy brow;
But hers was like the sunny glow,
That laughs on earth and all below!
We wedded secret — there was need —
Differing in country and in creed;
And when to Mortham’s tower she came,
We mentioned not her race and name,
Until thy sire, who fought afar.
Should turn him home from foreign war,
On whose kind influence we relied
To sooth her father s ire and pride.
Few months we lived retired, unknown,
To all but one dear friend alone.
One darling friend — I spare his shame,
I will not write the villain’s name!
My trespasses I might forget.
And sue in vengeance for the debt
Due by a brother worm to me,
Ungrateful to God’s clemency.
That spared me penitential time,
Nor cut me off amid my crime. —
“A kindly smile to all she lent,
But on her husband’s friend ’twas bent
So kind, that, from its harmless glee,
The wretch misconstrued villainy.
Repulsed in his presumptuous love,
A vengeful snare the traitor wove.
Alone we sate — the flask had flowed.
My blood with heat unwonted glowed,
When through the alleyed walk we spied
With hurried step my Edith glide,
Cowering beneath the verdant screen.
As one unwilling to be seen.
Words cannot paint the fiendish smile.
That curl’d the traitor s cheek the while!
Fiercely I questioned of the cause;
He made a cold and artful pause.
Then prayed it might not chafe my mood —
“There was a gallant in the wood!” —
We had been shooting at the deer; —
My cross-bow (evil chance!) was near:
That ready weapon of my wrath
I caught, and, hasting up the path,
In the yew grove my wife I found,
A stranger’s arms her neck had bound!
I marked his heart — the bow I drew —
I loosed the shaft — ’twas more than true!
I found my Edith’s dying charms
Locked in her murdered brother’s arms!
He came in secret to enquire
Her state, and reconcile her sire. —
“All fled my rage — the villain first,
Whose craft my jealousy had nursed;
He sought in far and foreign clime
To ‘scape the vengeance of his crime.
The manner of the slaughter done
Was known to few, my guilt to none;
Some tale my faithful steward framed —
I know not what — of shaft mis-aimed;
And even from those the act who knew.
He hid the hand the dart that threw.
Untouched by human laws I stood,
Bvit Goo had heard the cry of blood! —
There is a blank upon my mind,
A fearful vision ill-defined,
Of raving till my flesh was torn.
Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn —
And when I waked to woe more mild,
And questioned of my infant child —
(Have I not written, that she bare
A boy, like summer morning fair?)
With looks confused my menials tell,
That armed men in Mortham dell
Beset the nurse’s evening way
And bore her, with her charge, away.
My faithless friend, and none but he,
Could profit by this villainy;
Him, then, I sought, with purpose dread
Of treble vengeance on his head!
He ‘scaped me — but my bosom’s wound
Some faint relief from wandering found,
And over distant land and sea
I bore my load of misery.
“’Twas then that fate my footsteps led
Among a daring crew and dread,
With whom full oft my hated life
I ventured in such desperate strife.
That even my fierce associates saw
My frantic deeds with doubt and awe.
Much then I learned, and much can show,
Of human guilt and human woe,
Yet ne’er have, in my wanderings, known
A wretch, whose sorrows matched my own! —
It chanced, that, after battle fray.
Upon the bloody field we lay;
The yellow moon her lustre shed
Upon the wounded and the dead.
While, sense in toil and wassail drowned,
My ruffian comrades slept around.
There came a voice — its silver tone
Was soft, Matilda, as thine own —
“Ah wretch!” it said, “what makest thou here,
While unavenged my bloody bier,
While unprotected lives mine heir.
Without a father’s name and care?” —
“I heard — obeyed — and homeward drew;
The fiercest of our desperate crew
I brought, at time of need to aid
My purposed vengeance, long delayed.
But, humble be my thanks to heaven,
That better hopes and thoughts has given,
And by our Lord’s dear prayer has taught,
Mercy by mercy must be bought! —
Let me in misery rejoice —
I’ve seen his face — I’ve heard his voice —
I claimed of him my only child —
As he disowned the theft, he smiled I
That very calm and callous look.
That fiendish sneer his visage took,
As when he said, in scornful mood,
“There is a gallant in the wood!” —
— I did not slay him as he stood —
All praise be to my Maker given!
Long-sufferance is one path to heaven.” —
Thus far the woeful tale was heai’d,
When something in the thicket stirred.
Up Redmond sprung; the villain Guy,
(For he it was that lurked so nigh)
Drew back — he durst not cross his steel
A moment’s space with brave O’Neale,
For all the treasured gold that rests
In Mortham’s iron-banded chests.
Redmond resumed his seat; — he said,
Some roe was rustling in the shade.
Bertram laughed grimly, when he saw
His timorous comrade backward draw:
“A trusty mate art thou, to fear
A single arm, and aid so near!
Yet have I seen thee mark a deer.
Give me thy carabine — I’ll show
An art that thou wilt gladly know.
How thou mayest safely quell a foe.” —
On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew
The spreading birch and hazels through,
Till he had Redmond full in view.
The gun he levelled — mark like this
Was Bertram never known to miss,
When fair opposed to aim there sate
An object of his venomed hate.
That day young Redmond’s death had seen,
But twice Matilda came between
The carabine and Redmond’s breast,
Just ere the spring his finger pressed.
A deadly oath the ruffian swore,
But yet his fell design forbore:
“It ne’er,” he muttered, “shall be said,
That thus I scathed thee, haughty maid!’
Then moved to seek more open aim,
When to his side Guy Denzil came:
“Bertram, forbear! — we are undone
For ever, if thou fire the gun.
By all the fiends, an armed force
Descends the dell, of foot and horse!
We perish if they hear a shot —
Madman! we have a safer plot —
Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee back!
Behold, down vonder hollow track.
The warlike leader of the band
Comes, with his broad-sword in his hand.” —
Bertram looked up; he saw, he knew,
That Denzil’s fears had counselled true,
Then cursed his fortune and withdrew,
Threaded the woodlands undescried,
And gained the cave on Greta-side«
They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath,
Doomed to captivity or death,
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent,
Saw not nor heard the ambushment.
Heedless and unconcerned they sate,
While on the very verge of fate;
Heedless and unconcerned remained.
When Heaven the murderer’s arm restrained;
As ships drift darkling down the tide,
Nor see the shelves o’er which they glide.
Uninterrupted thus they heard
What Mortham’s closing tale declared.
He spoke of wealth as of a load,
By Fortune on a wretch bestowed,
In bitter mockery of hate,
His cureless woes to aggravate;
But yet he prayed Matilda’s care
Might save that treasure for his heir —
His Edith’s son — for still he raved
As confident his life was saved;
In frequent vision, he averred.
He saw his face, his voice he heard.
Then argued calm — had murder been.
The blood, the corpses, had been seen;
Some had pretended, too, to mark
On Windermere a stranger bark,
Whose crew with jealous care, yet mild,
Guarded a female and a child.
While these faint proofs he told and pressed,
Hope seemed to kindle in his breast;
Though inconsistent, vague, and vain,
It warped his judgement and his brain.
These solemn words his story close:—
“Heaven witness for me, that I chose
My part in this sad civil fight,
Moved by no cause but England’s right.
My country’s groans have bid me draw
My sword for gospel and for law; —
These righted, I fling arms aside,
And seek my son through Europe wide.
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh
Already casts a grasping eye,
With thee may unsuspected lie.
When of my death Matilda hears,
Let her retain her trust three years;
If none, from me, the treasure claim.
Perished is Mortham’s race and name;
Then let it leave her generous hand,
And flow in bounty o’er the land,
Soften the wounded prisoner’s lot.
Rebuild the peasant’s ruined cot;
That spoils, acquired by fight afar,
May mitigate domestic war.” —
The generous youths, who well had known
Of Mortham’s mind the powerful tone,
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved,
Gave sympathy his woes deserved;
But Wilfrid chief, who saw revealed
Why Mortham wished his life concealed,
In secret, doubtless, to pursue
The schemes his wildered fancy drew.
Thoughtfvil he heard Matilda tell.
That she would share her father’s cell.
His partner of captivity,
Where’er his prison-house should be;
Yet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall,
Dismantled, and forsook by all.
Open to rapine and to stealth,
Had now no safe-guard for the wealth
Entrusted by her kinsman kind.
And for such noble use desianed,
“Was Barnard — Castle then her choice,”
Wilfrid enquired with hasty voice.
“Since there the victor’s laws ordain,
Her father must a space remain?” —
A fluttered hope his accents shook,
A fluttered joy was in his look.
Matilda hastened to reply,
For anger flashed in Redmond’s eye:—
“Duty,” she said with gentle grace,
“Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place;
Else had I for my sire assigned
Prison less galling to his mind,
Than that his wild-wood haunts which sees,
And hears the murmur of the Tees,
Recalling thus, with every glance,
What captive’s sorrow can enhance; —
But where those woes are highest, there
Needs Rokeby most his daughter’s care.” —
He felt the kindly check she gave,
And stood abashed — then answered grave:—
“I sought thy purpose, noble maid.
Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid.
I have beneath mine own command,
So wills my sire, a gallant band,
And well could send some horsemen wight
To bear the treasure forth by night.
And so bestow it as you deem
In these ill days may safest seem.” —
“Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks,” she said:
O be it not one day delayed!
And, more thy sister-friend to aid,
Be thou thyself content to hold,
In thine own keeping, Mortham’s gold.
Safest with thee.” — While thus she spoke,
Armed soldiers on their converse broke.
The same of whose approach afraid,
The ruffians left their ambuscade.
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low,
Then looked around as for a foe.
“What mean’st thou, friend,” young Wycliffe said,
“Why thus in arms beset the glade?”
— “That would I gladly learn from you;
For up my squadron as I drew,
To exercise our martial game
Upon the moor of Barninghame,
A stranger told you were way-laid.
Surrounded, and to death betrayed.
He had a leader’s voice, I ween,
A falcon glance, a warrior’s mien.
He bade me bring you instant aid;
I dovibted not, and I obey’d.” —
Wilfrid changed colour, and, amazed,
Turned short, and on the speaker gazed,
While Redmond every thicket round
Tracked earnest as a questing hound.
And Denzil's carabine he found;
Sure evidence, by which they knew
The warning was as kind as true.
Wisest it seemed, with cautious speed
To leave the dell. It was agreed,
That Redmond, with Matilda fair.
And fitting guard, should home repair;
At nightfall Wilfrid should attend.
With a strong band, his sister-friend.
To bear with her from Rokeby’s bowers
To Barnard — Castle’s lofty towers,
Secret and safe, the banded chests,
In which the weahh of Mortham rests.
This hasty purpose fixed, they part,
Each with a grieved and anxious heart.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 12:00