Was but one moment's work,-one more
Had drenched the blade in Wilfrid's gore;
But, in the instant it arose,

To end his life, his love, his woes,
A warlike form, that marked the scene,
Presents his rapier sheathed between,
Parries the fast-descending blow,
And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe;
Nor then unscabbarded his brand,
But sternly pointing with his hand,
With monarch's voice forbade the fight,
And motioned Bertram from his sight.
"Go, and repent," he said, "while time
Is given thee; add not crime to crime."

Mute and uncertain, and amazed,
As on a vision, Bertram gazed!
'Twas Mortham's bearing bold and high,
His sinewy frame, his falcon eye,
His look and aceent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,
His war-bleached locks, 'twas Mortham all.
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear.
His wavering faith received not quite
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite,
But more he feared it, if it stood
His lord, in living flesh and blood-
What spectre can the charnel send,
So dreadful as an injured friend?
Then, too, the habit of command,
Used by the leader of the band,
When Risingham, for many a day,
Had marched and fought beneath his sway,
Tamed him-and, with reverted face,
Backward he bore his sullen pace,
Oft stopped, and oft on Morthiam stared,
And dark as rated mastiff glared;

But when the tramp of steeds was heard,
Plunged in the glen, and disappeared.
Nor longer there the warrior stood,
Retiring eastward through the wood;
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,
"Tell thou to none that Mortham lives."
XXIII.

Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear,
Hinting he knew not what of fear,
When nearer came the coursers' tread,
And, with his father at their head,
Of horsemen armed, a gallant power
Reined up their steeds before the tower.
"Whence these pale looks, my son?" he said;
"Where's Bertram? why that naked blade?”
Wilfrid ambiguously replied,

(For Mortham's charge his honour tied,)
Bertram is gone-the villain's word,
Avouched him murderer of his lord!
E'en now we fought-but, when your tread
Announced you nigh, the felon fled."
In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear
A guilty hope, a guilty fear;

On his pale brow the dew-drop broke,
And his lip quivered as he spoke.
XXIV.

"A murderer! Philip Mortham died
Amid the battle's wildest tide.
Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you!
Yet grant such strange confession true,
Pursuit were vain-let him fly far--
Justice must sleep in civil war."

A gallant youth rode near his side,
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried;
That morn, an embassy of weight
He brought to Barnard's castle gate,
And followed now in Wycliffe's train,
An answer for his lord to gain.
His steed, whose arched and sable neck
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck,
Chafed not against the curb more high
Than he at Oswald's cold reply;
He bit his lip, implored his saint,
(His the old faith)-then burst restraint.
XXV.

"Yes!-I beheld his bloody fall,
By that base traitor's dastard ball,
Just when I thought to measure sword,
Presumptuous hope! with Mortham's lord.
And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew
His leader, generous, brave, and true?
Escape! while on the dew you trace
The marks of his gigantic pace?
No! ere the sun that dew shall dry,
False Risingham shall yield or die.
Ring out the eastle larum bell!
Arouse the peasants with the knell!
Meantime, disperse-ride, gallants, ride!
Beset the wood on every side.

But if among you one there be,
That honours Mortham's memory,
Let him dismount and follow me!
Else on your crests sit fear and shame,
And foul suspicion dog your name!"
XXVI.

Instant to earth young Redmond sprung,
Instant on earth the harness rung
Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band,
Who waited not their lord's command.
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew,
His mantle from his shoulder threw,
His pistols in his belt he placed,

The greenwood gained, the footsteps traced,
Shouted like huntsman to his hounds,
"To cover, hark!”—and in he bounds.
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry,
"Suspicion! yes-pursue him-fly-
But venture not, in useless strife,
On ruffian desperate of his life.
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead!
Five hundred nobles for his head.”
XXVII.

The horsemen galloped, to make gooa
Each pass that issued from the wood,
Loud from the thickets rung the shout
Of Redmond and his eager route;
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire.
And envying Redmond's martial fire,
And emulous of fame. But where
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir?
He, bound by honour, law, and faith,
Avenger of his kinsman's death?
Leaning against the elmine tree,

With drooping head and slackened knee,
And clenched teeth, and close clasped hands,
In agony of soul he stands!

His downcast eye on earth is bent,
His soul to every sound is lent,
For in each shout that cleaves the air
May ring discovery and despair

All seems in giddy round to ride,
Like objects on a stormy tide,
Seen eddying by the moonlight dim,
Imperfectly to sink or swim.

What 'vailed it, that the fair domain,
Its battled mansion, hill, and plain,
On which the sun so brightly shone,
Envied so long, was now his own?
The lowest dungeon, in that hour,
Of Brackenbury's dismal tower, 14
Had been his choice, could such a doom
Have opened Mortham's bloody tomb!
Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear
To each surmise of hope or fear,
Murmured among the rustics round,
Who gathered at the larum sound.
He dare not turn his head away,
E'en to look up to heaven to pray;
Or call on hell, in bitter mood,
For one sharp death-shot from the wood!
XXIX.

At length o'erpast that dreadful space,
Back straggling came the scattered chase;
Jaded and weary, horse and man,
Returned the troopers, one by one.
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say,
All trace was lost of Bertram's way,
Though Redmond still, up Brignal wood,
The hopeless quest in vain pursued.
O fatal doom of human race!
What tyrant passions passions chase!
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone,
Avarice and pride resume their throne;
The pang of instant terror by,
They dictate thus their slave's reply.
XXX.

"Ay-let him range like hasty hound!
And if the grim wolf's lair be found,
Small is my care how goes the game
With Redmond or with Risingham.
Nay, answer not, thou simple boy!
Thy fair Matilda, all so coy
To thee, is of another mood
To that bold youth of Erin's blood.
Thy ditties will she freely praise,
And pay thy pains with courtly phrase;
In a rough path will oft command-
Accept at least-thy friendly hand;
His she avoids, or, urged and prayed,
Unwilling takes his proffered aid,
While conscious passion plainly speaks
In downcast look and blushing cheeks.
Whene'er he sings will she glide nigh,
And all her soul is in her eye,
Yet doubts she still to tender free
The wonted words of courtesy.
These are strong signs! yet wherefore sigh,
And wipe, effeminate, thine eye?
Thine shalt she be, if thou attend
The counsels of thy sire and friend.
XXXI.

"Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of light
Brought genuine news of Marston's fight.
Brave Cromwell turned the doubtful tide,
And conquest blest the rightful side;
Three thousand cavaliers lie dead,
Rupert and that bold marquis fled;
Nobles and knights, so proud of late,
Must fine for freedom and estate.
Of these committed to my charge,
Is Rokeby, prisoner at large;

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.
IV.

'Twas then, in hour of utmost need,
He proved his courage, art, and speed.
Now slow he stalked with stealthy pace,
Now started forth in rapid race,
Oft doubling back in mazy train,
To blind the trace the dews retain;
Now clombe the rocks projecting high,
To baffle the pursuer's eye,

Now sought the stream, whose brawling sound
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.
"Twas 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,—
"Twas 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 couches in the brake and fern,
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.3

V.

Then Bertram might the bearing trace
Of the bold youth who led the chase,
Who paused to list for every sound,
Climbed every height to look around,
Then rushing on with naked sword,
Each dingle's bosky depths explored.
'Twas Redmond-by the azure eye;
'Twas Redmond-by the locks that fly
Disordered from his glowing cheek;
Mien, face, and form, young Redmond speak.
A form more active, light, and strong,
Ne'er shot the ranks of war along:
The modest, yet the manly mien,
Might grace the court of maiden queen;
A face more fair you well might find,
For Redmond's knew the sun and wind,
Nor boasted, from their tinge when free,
The charm of regularity;

But every feature had the power
To aid the expression of the hour:
Whether gay wit, and humour sly,
Danced laughing in his light-blue eye;
Or bended brow, and glance of fire,
And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire;
Or soft and saddened glances show
Her ready sympathy with wo;
Or in that wayward mood of mind,
When various feelings are combined,
When joy and sorrow mingle near,

And hope's bright wings are check'd by fear,
And rising doubts keep transport down,
And anger lends a short-lived frown;

In that strange mood which maids approve,
E'en when they dare not call it love,
With every change his features played,
As aspens show the light and shade.
VI.

Well Risingham young Redmond knew;
And much he marvelled that the crew,
Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead,
Were by that Mortham's foeman led;
For never felt his soul the wo,
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.

VIL.

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.

VIII.

He listened long with anxious heart,
Ear bent to hear, and foot to start,
And, while his stretched attention glows,
Refused his weary frame repose.
'Twas silence all--he laid him down,
Where purple heath profusely strown
And throatwort with its azure bell,4
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 current shone,

Matching in hue the favourite gem
Of Albyn's mountain diadem.

Then, tired to watch the current's play,
He turned his weary eyes away,
To where the bank opposing showed
Its huge square cliffs through shaggy wood.
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 various lichens died
Its waste and weather beaten side,
And round its rugged bases 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.
IX.

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!5
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.
X.

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,
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."

XI. Instant his sword was in his hand, As instant sunk the ready brand; Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood To him that issued from the wood:"Guy Denzil! is it thou?" he said; "Do we two meet in Scargill shade?Stand back a space!-thy purpose show, Whether thou comest as friend or foe. Report hath said that Denzil's name From Rokeby's band was razed with shame." "A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, Who told his knight, in peevish zea, Of my marauding on the clowns Of Calverley and Bradford downs.-6

I reck not. In a war to strive,

Where, save the leaders, none can thrive,
Suits ill my mood; and better game
Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham,

Who watched with me in midnight dark,
To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park.

How think'st thou""" Speak thy purpose out; I love not mystery or doubt."

XII.

"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 loth to bow,

Will yield to chief renowned as thou."

XIII.

"E'en now," thought Bertram, "passion-stirred,
I called on hell, and hell has heard!
What lack 1, 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.

XIV.

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 straight and rude
In slaty rock the peasant hewed;

And Brignal's woods, and Scargill's, wave
E'en now o'er many a sister cave,7
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 erew.
There Guilt his anxious revel kept;
There on his sordid pallet slept
Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drained
Still in his slumbering grasp retained;
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.

XV.

Hark! the loud revel wakes again,
To greet the leader of the train.
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 merry feat;

Fast flies his dream-with dauntless air,
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 found
Her blossoms on the wildest ground,
'Mid noxious weeds at random strewed,
Themselves all profitless and rude.-
With desperate merriment he sung,
The cavern to the chorus rung;
Yet mingled with his reckless glee
Remorse's bitter agony.
XVI.

SONG,

O Brignal banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.

And as I rode by Dalton-hall, Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily,

CHORUS.

"O, Brignal 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 would'st wend with me,
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,

Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed,
As blith as queen of May."

CHORUS.

Yet sung she," Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green:

I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen,
XVII.

"I read you, by your bugle horn,
And by your palfrey good,

I read you for a ranger sworn,

To keep the king's green-wood.”— "A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light;

His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."-