!

From his that plans the red campaign,
To his that wastes the woodland reign.
The failing wing, the blood-shot eye,
The sportsman marks with apathy,
Each feeling of his victim's ill
Drowned in his own successful skill.
The veteran, too, who now no more
Aspires to head the battle's roar,
Loves still the triumph of his art,
And traces on the pencilled chart
Some stern invader's destined way,
Through blood and ruin to his prey;
Patriots to death, and towns to flame,
He dooms to raise another's name,

And shares the guilt, though not the fame.
What pays him for his span of time
Spent in premeditated crime?
What against pity arms his heart?--
It is the conscious pride of art.

XXIII.

But principles in Edmund's mind
Were baseless, vague, and undefined.
His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On passion's changeful tide was tossed;
Nor Vice Nor Virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour;
And, oh, when passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to Virtue's share!
Yet now she roused her-for the pride,
That lack of sterner guilt supplied,
Could scarce support him when arose
The lay that mourned Matilda's woes.

SONG.

THE FAREWELL.

The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear,
They mingle with the song;
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,
I must not hear them long.

From every loved and native haunt
The native heir must stray,

And, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt,
Must part before the day.

Soon from the halls my fathers reared,
Their scutcheons may descend.

A line so long beloved and feared
May soon obscurely end.

No longer here Matilda's tone
Shall bid these echoes swell,

Yet shall they hear her prondly own
The cause in which we fell.

The Lady paused, and then again,
Resumed the lay in loftier strain.

XXIV.

Let our halls and towers decay,
Be our name and line forgot,
Lands and manors pass away,-
We but share our monarch's lot.
If no more our annals show

Battles won and banners taken,
Still in death, defeat, and woe,
Ours be loyalty unshaken!
Constant still in danger's hour,
Princes owned our fathers' aid;

Lands and honours, wealth and power,
Well their loyalty repaid.

Perish wealth, and power, and pride!
Mortal boons by mortals given;
But let Constancy abide,

Constancy's the gift of Heaven.

XXV.

While thus Matilda's lay was heard,
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirred.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody,

And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,

Claiming respect, yet waving state,
That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown;
But, while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty.-

To Edmund's thought Matilda seemed
The very object he had dreamed,
When, long ere guilt his soul had known,
In Winston's bowers he mused alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine

The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of princess fair, by cruel fate

Reft of her honours, power, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restored
By destined hero's conquering sword.

XXVI.

"Such was my vision!" Edmund thought;
"And have I, then, the ruin wrought
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision formed her peer?
Was it my hand that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes?
Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith,
Their kindest mercy sudden death!
Have I done this? I! who have swore,
That if the globe such angel bore,

I would have traced its circle broad,
To kiss the ground on which she trod!-
And now-O! would that earth would rive,
And close upon me while alive!-

Is there no hope! Is all then lost?-
Bertram's already on his post!

Even now, beside the hall's arched door,
I saw his shadow cross the floor!
He was to wait my signal strain
A little respite thus we gain:-
By what I heard the menials say
Young Wycliffe's troop are on their way→
Alarm precipitates the crime!

My harp must wear away the time."-
And then, in accents faint and low,
He faltered forth a tale of woe.

XXVII. BALLAD.

"And whither would you lead me, then?" Quoth the Friar of orders gray;

And the ruffians twain replied again, "By a dying woman to pray."

"I see," he said, "a lovely sight, A sight bodes little harm,

A lady as a lily bright,

With an infant on her arm."

"Then do thine office, Friar gray,"

And see thou shrive her free!

Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night,
Fling all its guilt on thee.

"Let mass be said, and trentals read.
When thou'rt to convent gone,

And bid the bell of St. Benedict
Toll out its deepest tone."-

The shrift is done, the Friar is gone,
Blindfolded as he came-
Next morning, all in Littlecot Hall
Were weeping for their dame.

Wild Darrell is an altered man,

The villiage crones can tell:

He looks pale as clay, and strives to pray,
If he hears the convent bell.

If prince or peer cross Darrell's way,
He'll beard him in his pride-

If he meet a Friar of orders gray,
He droops and turns aside.

XXVIII.

"Harper! methinks thy magic lays,"
Matilda said, "can goblins raise!
Well nigh my fancy can discern,
Near the dark porch, a visage stern;
E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook
I see it !-Redmond, Wilfrid, look!-
A human form distinct and clear-
God, for thy mercy!-It draws near!"---
She saw too true. Stride after stride,
The centre of that chamber wide
Fierce Bertram gained; then made a stand,
And, proudly waving with his hand,
Thundered-"Be still, upon your lives!

He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives."—
Behind their chief, the robber crew
Forth from the darkened portal drew,
In silence-save that echo dread
Returned their heavy measured tread.
The lamp's uncertain lustre gave

Their arins to gleam, their plumes to wave;
File after file in order pass,

Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass.
Then, halting at their leader's sign,

At once they formed and curved their line,
Hemming within its crescent drear
Their victims, like a heard of deer.
Another sign, and to the aim
Levelled at once their muskets came,
As waiting but their chieftain's word,
To make their fatal volley heard.

XXIX.

Back in a heap the menials drew,
Yet, even in mortal terror, true,
Their pale and startled group oppose
Between Matilda and the foes.

"O, haste thee, Wilfrid!" Redmond cried;
"Undo that wicket by thy side!
Bear hence Matilda-gain the wood-
The pass may be a while made good--
Thy band, cre this, must sure be nigh-
O speak not-dally not-but fly!"-
While yet the crowd their motions hide,
Through the low wicket door they glide.
Through vaulted passages they wind,
In Gothic intricacy twined;
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore,
Matilda to the postern door,
And safe beneath the forest tree
The Lady stands at liberty.

The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress,
Renewed suspended consciousness:---
Where's Redmond?" eagerly she cries:
"Thou answer'st not-he dies! he dies!
And thou hast left him, all bereft
Of mortal aid-with murderers left!-
I know it well-he would not yield
His sword to man-his doom is sealed!
For my scorned life, which thou hast bought
At price of his, I thank thee not."--

XXX.

The unjust reproach, the angry look,
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook.
Lady," he said, "my band so near,
In safety thou mayst rest thee here.
For Redmond's death thou shalt not mourn,
If mine can buy his safe return "-
He turned away-his heart throbbed high,
The tear was bursting from his eye.
The sense of her injustice pressed
Upon the maid's distracted breast.-
"Stay, Wilfrid, stay! all aid is vain!"
He heard, but turned him not again;
And now he gains the postern door,
Now enters-and is seen no more.
XXXI.

With all the agony that e'er
Was gendered 'twixt suspense and fear,
She watched the line of windows tall,
Whose Gothic lattice lights the hall,

Distinguished by the paly red

The lamps in dim reflection shed,
While all beside in wan moonlight,
Each grated casement glimmered white,
No sight of harm, no sound of ill,
It is a deep and midnight still.
Who looked upon the scene had guessed
All in the Castle were at rest:
When sudden on the windows shone
A lightning flash, just seen and gone!
A shot is heard-Again the flame
Flashed thick and fast-a volley came!
Then echoed wildly, from within,
Of shout and scream the mingled din,
And weapon-clash and maddening cry
Of those who kill, and those who die!
As filled the hall with sulphurous sinoke,
More red, more dark, the death-flash broke,
And forms were on the lattice cast,
That struck, or struggled, as they passed.

XXXII.

What sounds upon the midnight wind
Approach so rapidly behind?
It is, it is the tramp of steeds!
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds,
Seizes upon the leader's rein-
"O haste to aid, ere aid be vain!
Fly to the postern-gain the hall!”—
From saddle spring the troopers all;
Their gallant steeds, at liberty,
Run wild along the moonlight lea.
But, ere they burst upon the scene,
Full stubborn had the conflict been,
When Betram marked Matilda's flight,

It gave the signal for the fight;

And Rokeby's veterans, seamed with scars
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars,
Their momentary panic o'er,
Stood to the arms which then they bore;
(For they were weaponed, and prepared
Their mistress on her way to guard.)
Then cheered them to the fight O'Neale,
Then pealed the shot, and clashed the steel;
The war-smoke soon with sable breath
Darkened the scene of blood and death,
While on the few defenders close
The Bandits with redoubled blows,
And, twice driven back, yet flerce and fell
Renew the charge with frantic yell,

XXXIII

Wifrid has fallen-but o'er him stood
Young Redmond, soiled with smoke and blood,
Cheering his mates, with heart and hand
Still to make good their desperate stand
"Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby's halls
Ne'er be it said our courage falls.
What! faint ye for their savage cry,

Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye?
These rafters have returned a shout

As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout,

As thick a smoke these hearths have given
At Hallow tide or Christmas even.
Stand to it yet! renew the fight,
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right!
These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand,
Bide buffet from a true man's brand."
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young,
Upon the advancing foes he sprung.
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent
His brandished falchion's sheer descent!
Backward they scattered as he came,
Like wolves before the levin flame,
When, 'mid their howling conclave driven,
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven.
Bertram rushed on-but Harpool clasped,
His knees, although in death he gasped,
His falling corpse before him flung,
And round the trammelled ruffian clung.
Just then, the soldiers filled the dome,
And, shouting, charged the felons home

So fiercely, that in panic dread,
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled.
Bertram's stern voice they heed no more,
Though heard above the battle's roar,
While, trampling down the dying man,
He strove, with volleyed threat and ban,
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite,
To rally up the desperate figlit.

XXXIV.

Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold,
Than e'er from battle-thunders rolled;
So dense, the combatants scarce know
To aim or to avoid the blow.

Smothering and blindfold grows the fight-
But soon shall dawn a dismal light!
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came
The hollow sound of rushing flame;
New horrors on the tumult dire
Arise-the Castle is on fire!
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand,
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand.
Matilda saw-for frequent broke
From the dim casements gusts of smoke.
Yon tower, which late so clear defined
On the fair hemisphere reclined,
That, pencilled on its azure pure,
The eye could count each embrasure,
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud,
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud:
Till, from each loop-hole flashing light,
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright,
And, gathering to united glare,
Streams high into the midnight air,
A dismal beacon, far and wide,

That wakened Greta's slumbering side.
Soon all beneath, through gallery long
And pendent arch, the fire flashed strong,
Snatching whatever could maintain,
Raise, or extend its furious reign;
Startling, with closer cause of dread,
The females who the conflict fled,
And now rushed forth upon the plain,
Filling the air with clamours vain.

But ceased not yet, the hall within,
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din,
Till barsting lattices give proof,

The flames have caught the raftered roof.
What! wait they till its beams amain
Crash on the slayers and the slain?
The alarm is caught-the drawbridge falls,
The warriors hurry from the walls,
But, by the conflagration's light,
Upon the lawn renew the figlit.
Each straggling felon down was hewed,
Not one could gain the sheltering wood;
But forth the affrighted Harper sprung,
And to Matilda's robe he clung.
Her shriek, entreaty, and command,
Stopped the pursuer's lifted hand.
Denzil and he alive were ta'en;
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain.

XXXVI.

And where is Bertram ?-Soaring high,
The general Hame ascends the sky;
In gathered group the soldiers gaze
Upon the broad and roaring blaze,
When, like infernal demon, sent
Red from his penal element,
To plague and to pollute the air,-
His face all gore, on fire his hair,
Forth from the central mass of smoke
The giant form of Bertram broke!

His branished sword on high he rears,
Then plunged among opposing spears;
Round his left arm his mantle trussed,
Received and foiled three lances' thrust;
Nor these his headlong course withstood,
Like reeds he snapped the tough ash-wood.
In vain his foes around him clung;
With matchless force aside he flung

Their boldest,-as the bull, at bay, Tosses the ban-dogs from his way Through forty foes his path he made, And safely gained the forest glade.

XXXVII.

Scarce was this final conflict o'er, When from the postern Redmond bore Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, Had in the fatal hall been left, Deserted there by all his train; But Redmond saw, and turned again.Beneath an oak he iaid him down, That in the blaze gleamed ruddy brown, And then his mantle's clasp undid; Matilda held his drooping head, Till, given to breathe the freer air, Returning life repaid their care. He gazed on them with heavy sigh,"I could have wished even thus to die!" No more he said-for now with speed Each trooper had regained his steed; The ready palfreys stood arrayed, For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid; Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, One leads his charger by the rein. But oft Matilda looked behind, As up the vale of Tees they wind, Where far the mansion of her sires Beaconed the dale with midnight fires. In gloomy arch above them spread, The clouded heaven lowered bloody red; Beneath, in sombre light, the flood Appeared to roll in waves of blood. Then, one by one, was heard to fall The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. Each rushing down with thunder sound, A space the conflagration drowned; Till, gathering strength, again it rese, Announced its triumph in its close, Shook wide its light the landscape o'er. Then sunk-and Rokeby was no more!

CANTO SIXTH.

I.

THE summer sun, whose early power
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower,
And rouse her with his matin ray
Her duteous orisons to pay,

That morning sun has three times seen
The flowers unfold on Rokeby green,
But sees no more the slumbers fly
From fair Matilda's hazel eye;
That morning sun has three times broke
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak,
But, rising from their sylyan screen,
Marks no gray turret's glance between!
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower,
That, hissing to the morning shower,
Can but with smouldering vapour pay
The early smile of summer day.
The peasant, to his labour bound,
Pauses to view the blackened mound,
Striving, amid the ruined space,
Each well-remembered spot to trace.
That length of frail and fire-scorched wall,
Once screened the hospitable hall;
When yonder broken arch was whole.
"Twas there was dealt the weekly dole;
And where yon tottering columns nod,
The chapel sent the hymn to God.
So flits the world's uncertain span!
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man,
Gives mortal monuments a date
Beyond the power of Time and Fate.
The towers must share the builder's doom
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb:

But better boon benignant Heaven
To Faith and Charity has given,
And bids the Christian hope sublime
Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time.

II.

Now the third night of summer came.
Since that which witnessed Rokeby's flame.
On Brignal cliffs and Scargill brake
The owlet's homilies awake,

The bittern screamed from rush and flag,
The raven slumbered on his crag,
Forth from his den the otter drew,-
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew,
As between reed and sedge he peers,
With fierce round snout and sharpened cars,
Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool,
Watches the stream or swims the pool;-
Perched on his wonted eyrie high,

Sleep sealed the tercelet's wearied eye,
That all the day had watched so well,
The cushat dart across the dell.
In dubious beam reflected shone
That lofty cliff of pale gray stone,
Beside whose base the secret cave
To rapine late a refuge gave.

The crag's wild crest of copse and yew
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw;
Shadows that met or shunned the sight,
With every change of fitful light;
As hope and fear alternate chase

Our course through life's uncertain race.

III.

Gliding by crag and copsewood green,
A solitary Form was seen

To trace with stealthy pace the wold,
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold,
And pauses oft, and cowers dismayed
At every breath that stirs the shade.
He passes now the ivy bush,

The owl has seen him and is hush;
He passes now the doddered oak,
He heard the startled raven croak;
Lower and lower he descends,
Rustle and leaves, the brushwood bends;
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the cliff of pale gray stone
The midnight wanderer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remembered form and face!
That stripling shape, that check so pale,
Combine to tell a rueful tale,

Of powers misused, of passion's force,
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse!
'Tis Edmund's eye. at every sound
That flings that guilty glance around;
"Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides
The brushwood that the cavern hides,
And, when its narrow porch lies bare,
"Tis Edmund's form that enters there.

IV.

His flint and steel have sparkled bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light.
Fearful and quick his eye surveys
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode,
It seemed as none its floor had trode:
Untouched appeared the various spoii,
The purchase of his comrades' toil;
Masks and disguises grimed with mud,
Arms broken and defiled with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade,
Upon the gloomy walls were hung,
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relics of the noontide cheer:
Flagons and empty filkaks were there,

And bench o'erthrown, and shattered chair:
And all around the semblance showed,
As when the final revel glowed,
When the red sun was setting fast,
And parting pledge Guy Denzil passed.
To Rokeby treasure-vaults! they quaffed,
And shouted loud and wildly laughed,

Poured maddening from the rocky door,
And parted-to return no more!
They found in Rokeby vaults their doom,-
A bloody death, a burning tomb

V.

There his own peasant dress he spies,
Doffed to assume that quaint disguise,
And shuddering thought upon his glee,
When pranked in garb of minstrelsy.
"Oh, be the fatal art accursed,'
He cried, "that moved my folly first,
Till, bribed by bandits' base applause,
I burst through God's and Nature's laws
Three summer days are scantly passed
Since I have trod this cavern last,

A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err-
But, oh, as yet no murderer!

Even now I list my comrades' cheer,
That general laugh is in mine ear,
Which raised my pulse and steeled my heart,
As I rehearsed my treacherous part-
And would that all since then could seem
The phantom of a fever's dream!
But fatal Memory notes too well
The horrors of the dying yell,

From my despairing mates that broke,
When flashed the fire and rolled the smoke,
When the avengers shouting came,

And hemmed us 'twixt the sword and flame!
My frantic flight-the lifted brand-
That angel's interposing hand!--
If for my life from slaughter freed.

I yet could pay some grateful meed!-
Perchance this object of my quest

May aid "-he turned, nor spoke the rest.

VI.

Duc northward from the rugged hearth,
With paces five he metes the earth.
Then toiled with mattock to explore

The entrails of the cavern floor,

Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground,
His search a small steel casket found.
Just as he stooped to loose its hasp,
His shoulder felt a giant grasp;

He started, and looked up aghast,

Then shrieked!-'twas Bertram held him fast.
"Fear not!" he said; but who could hear
That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?
"Fear not!-by Heaven, he shakes as much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch!"-
He raised him, and unloosed his hold.
While from the opening casket rolled
A chain and reliquaire of gold.
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gazed on its fashion and device.
Then, cheering Edmund as he could,
Somewhat he smoothed his rugged mood;
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Quivered with terror's agony.
And sidelong glanced, as to explore,
In meditated fight, the door.

"Sit," Bertram said, "from danger free;
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not, flee.
Chance brings me hither; hill and plain
I've sought for refuge-place in vain,
And tell me now, thon aquish boy,

What makest thou here? what means this toy?
Denzil and thou, I marked, were ta'en;
What lucky chance unbound your chain?

I deemed, long since on Baliol's tower,

Your heads were warped with sun and shower.
Tell me the whole-and, mark! nought e'er
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear."-
Gathering his courage to his aid,
But trembling still, the youth obeyed.

VII.

"Denzil and I two nights passed o'er In fetters on the dungeon floor.

A guest the third sad morrow brought; Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought,

And eyed my comrade long askance,
With fixed and penetrating glance.
Guy Denzil art thou called? The same.'-
At Court who served wild Buckinghame;
Thence banished, won a keeper's place,
So Villiers willed, in Marwood chase;
That lost-I need not tell thee why-
Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply,
Then fought for Rokeby:-have I guessed
My prisoner right? At thy behest.'-
He paused awhile, and then went on
With low and confidential tone;
Me, as I judge, not then he saw,
Close nestled in my couch of straw.-

List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great
Have frequent need of what they hate;
Hence, in their favour oft we see
Unscrupled, useful men like thee.
Were I disposed to bid thee live,

What pledge of faith hast thou to give?'

VIII.

"The ready flend, who never yet
Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit,
Prompted his lie-His only child
Should rest his pledge.'-The Baron smil
And turned to me-Thou art his son?'
I bowed-our fetters were undone,
And we were led to hear apart
A dreadful lesson of his art.
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son,
Had fair Matilda's favour won;
And long since had their union been,
But for her father's bigot spleen,
Whose brute and blindfold party rage
Would, force per force, her hand engage
To a base kerne of Irish earth,
Unknown his lineage and his birth,
Save that a dying ruffian bore
The infant brat to Rokeby door.
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed;
But fair occasion he must find

For such restraint well-meant and kind,
The knight being rendered to his chargé
But as a prisoner at large.

IX.

"He schooled us in a well-forged tale,
Of scheme the Castle walls to scale,
To which was leagued each cavalier
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear;
That Rokeby, his parole forgot,
Had dealt with us to aid the plot.

Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale
Proffered, as witness, to make good,
Even though the forfeit were their blood,
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er

His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore,
And then-alas! what needs there more?
I knew I should not live to say
The proffer I refused that day;
Ashamed to live, yet loath to die,
I soiled me with their infamy!".

"Poor youth," said Bertram, "wavering still, Unfit alike for good or ill!

But what fell next?"-" Soon as at large
Was scrolled and signed our fatal charge,

There never yet, on tragic stage,

Was seen so well a painted rage

As Oswald's showed! with loud alarm

He called his garrison to arm;

From tower to tower, from post to post,
He hurried as if all were lost;
Consigned to dungeon and to chain
The good old knight and all his train;
Warned each suspected cavalier,
Within his limits, to appear
To-morrow, at the hour of noon,
In the high church of Eglistone."-

X.

"Of Eglistone! Even now I passed,"
Said Bertram, "as the night closed fast
Torches and cressets gleamed around,
I heard the saw and hammer sound,
And I could mark they toiled to raise
A scaffold, hung with sable baize,
Which the grim headsman's scene displayed,
Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid.
Some evil deed will there be done,
Unless Matilda wed his son:-

She loves him not-'tis shrewdly guessed
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast.
This is a turn of Oswald's skill;

But I may meet and foil him still;

How camest thou to thy freedom?"-"There
Lies mystery more dark and rare.

In midst of Wycliffe's well-feigned rage,
A scroll was offered by a page,
Who told, a muffled horseman late

Had left it at the Castle gate.

He broke the seal-his cheek showed change,
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange
The mimic passion of his eye

Was turned to actual agony,

His hand like summer sapling shook,
Terror and guilt were in his look.
Denzil he judged, in time of need,
Fit counsellor for evil deed,

And thus apart his counsel broke,
While with a ghastly smile he spoke :-

XI.

"As in the pageants of the stage,
The dead awake in this wild age,
Mortham,-whom all men deemed decreed
In his own deadly snare to bleed,
Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea,
He trained to aid in murdering.ine,-
Mortham has 'scaped; the coward shot
The steed, but harmed the rider not."
Here, with an execration fell,

Bertram leaped up, and paced the cell;-
"Thine own gray head, or bosom dark,'
He muttered, "inay be surer mark!"-
Then sat, and signed to Edmund, pale
With terror, to resume his tale.

"Wycliffe went on;-Mark with what flights Of wildered reverie he writes:

THE LETTER.

"Ruler of Mortham's destiny!

Though dead, thy victim lives to thee.
Once had he all that binds to life,

A lovely child, a lovelier wife;

Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his own-
Thou gavest the word, and they are flown.
Mark how he pays thee:-to thy hand
He yields his honours and his land,
One boon premised;-Restore his child!
And, from his native land exiled,
Mortham no more returns to claim
His lands, his honours, or his name;
Refuse him this, and from the slain
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.'-

XII.

"This billet while the Baron read,
His faltering accents showed his dread;
He pressed his forehead with his palm,
Then took a scornful tone and calin;
'Wild as the winds, as billows wild!
What wot I of his spouse or child?
Hither he brought a joyous dame,
Unknown her lineage or her name:
Her, in some frantic fit, he slew;
The nurse and child in fear withdrew.
Heaven be my witness! wist I where
To find this youth, my kinsman's heir,-
Unguerdoned, I would give with joy
The father's arms to fold his boy,
And Mortham's lands and towers resign
To the just heirs of Mortham's line.'-