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By Greta's side, in evening grey, Or, in some wild and lone retreat, To steal upon Matilda's way,

Flung her high spells around his seat, Striving, with fond hypocrisy, Bathed in her dews his languid head, For careless step and vacant eye; Her fairy mantle o'er him spread, Calming each anxious look and glance, For him her opiates gave to flow To give the meeting all to chance, Which he who tastes can ne'er forego, Or framing, as a fair excuse,

And placed him in her circle, free The book, the pencil, or the muse: From every stern reality, Something to give, to sing, to say, Till, to the Visionary, seem Some modern tale, some ancient lay. Her day-dreams truth, and truth a Then, while the long'd-for minutes dream.

last, Ah! minutes quickly over-past!

XXXI. Recording each expression free, Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, Of kind or careless courtesy,

Winning from Reason's hand thereins! Each friendly look, each softer tone, Pity and woe! for such a mind As food for fancy when alone.

Is soft, contemplative, and kind; All this is o'er--but still, unseen, And woe to those who train such youth, Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green, And spare to press the rights of truth, To watch Matilda's wonted round, The mind to strengthen and anneal, Whilesprings his heart at every sound. While on the stithy glows the steel! She comes :—'tis but a passing sight, O teach him, while your lessons last, Yet serves to cheat his weary night; To judge the present by the past; She comes not-he will wait the Remind him of each wish pursued, hour

How rich it glow'd with promised good; When her lamp lightens in the tower; . Remind him of each wish enjoy'd, 'Tis something yet, if, as she past, How soon his hopes possession cloy'd! Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. Tell him, we play unequal game "What is my life, my hope ?' he said; Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim; Alas! a transitory shade.'

And, ere he strip him for her race,
Show the conditions of the chase.

Two sisters by the goal are set, Thus wore his life, though reason Cold Disappointment and Regret; strove

One disenchants the winner's eyes For mastery in vain with love, And strips of all its worth the prize, Forcing upon his thoughts the sum While one augments its gaudy show Of present woe and ills to come, More to enhance the loser's woe. While still he turn'd impatient car The victor secs his fairy gold From Truth's intrusive voice severe. Transform'd, when won, to drossy Gentle, indifferent, and subdued,

mold; In all but this, unmoved he view'd But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss, Each outward change of ill and good. And rues, as gold, that glittering dross. But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild,

XXXII. Was Fancy's spoild and wayward child;

More wouldst thou know-yon tower In her bright car she bade him ride,

survey, With one fair form to grace his side, Yon couch unpress'd since parting day,



Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow Then did I swear thy ray serene gleam

Was form'd to light somelonely dell, Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, By two fond lovers only seen And yon thin form!—the hectic red Reflected from the crystal well; On his pale cheek unequal spread; ! Or sleeping on their mossy cell, The head reclined, the loosen'd hair, Or quivering on the lattice bright, The limbs relax'd, the mournful air. Or glancing on their couch, to tell See, he looks up;—a woful smile How swiftly wanes the summer Lightens hiswoeworn cheek a while, night!' 'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought To gild the ruin she has wrought; For, like the bat of Indian brakes,

He starts; a stop at this lone hour? Her pinions fan the wound she makes, A voice! his father seeks the tower, And soothing thus the dreamer's pain, Fresh from his dreadful conference.

With haggard look and troubled sense, She drinks his life-blood from the vein. Now to the lattice turn his eyes,

· Wilfrid! what, not to sleep address'd? Vain hope! to see the sun arise,

Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. The moon with clouds is still o'ercast, Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor; Still howls by fits the stormy blast;

Bertram brings warrant to secure Another hour must wear away

His treasures, bought by spoil and Ere the East kindle into day.

blood, And hark! to waste that weary hour

For the State's use and public good. He tries the minstrel's magic power :

The menials will thy voice obey;
Let his cominission have its way
In every point, in every word.'

Then, in a whisper—“Take thy sword!

Bertram is-what I must not tell. To the Moon.

I hear his hasty step, farewell: • Hail to thy cold and clouded beam,

Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky! Hail, though the mists that o'er thee

stream Lend to thy brow their sullen dye!

Canto Second. How should thy pure and peaceful eye

Untroubled view our scenes below, Or how a tearless beam supply

Far in the chambers of the west To light a world of war and woe!

The gale had sigh'd itself to rest ;

The moon was cloudless now and clear, Fair Queen! I will not blame thee now, But pale, and soon to disappear.

As once by Greta's fairy side ; The thin grey clouds wax dimly light Each little cloud that dimm’d thy brow On Brusleton and Houghton height ;

Did then an angel's beauty hide. And the rich dale, that eastward lay And of the shades I then could chide, Waited the wakening touch of day, Still are the thoughts to memory To give its woods and cultured plain, dear,

And towers and spires, to light again. For, while a softer strain I tried, But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless They hid my blush, and calm'd my swell, fear.

And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell,





And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild, And Arkingarth, lay dark afar; And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, While, as a livelier twilight falls, And last and least, but loveliest still, Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd | Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. walls.

Who in that dim-wood glen hath High-crown'd he sits, in dawning pale, stray'd, The sovereign of the lovely vale. Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ?

Who, wandering there, hath sought

to change What prospects, from his watch-tower Even for that vale so stern and strange, high,

Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent, Gleam gradual on the warder's eye!- Through her green copse like spires Far sweeping to the east, he sees

are sent ? Down his deep woods the course of Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, Tees,

Thy scenes and story to combine! And tracks his wanderings by the Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays,

List to the deeds of other days; Of summer vapours from the stream; / 'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st And ere he paced his destined hour

the cave, By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, The refuge of thy champion brave; These silver mists shall melt away Giving each rock its storied tale, And dew the woods with glittering ! Pouring a lay for every dale, spray

Knitting, as with a moral band, Then in broad lustre shall be shown Thy native legends with thy land, That mighty trench of living stone, To lend each scene the interest high And each huge trunk that, from the side, Which genius beams from Beauty's Reclines him o'er the darksome tide,

cye. Where Tees, full many a fathom low,

IV. Wears with his rage no common foe; Bertram awaited not the sight For pebbly bank nor sand-bed here, Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce height, career,

But from the towers, preventing day Condemn'd to mine a channelld way With Wilfrid took his early way, O'er solid sheets of marble grey. While misty dawn, and moonbeam


Still mingled in the silent dale. Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, By Barnard's bridge of stately stone Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight; The southern bank of Tees they won; But many a tributary stream

Their winding path then eastward cast, Each from its own dark dell shall gleam: And Egliston's grey ruins pass’d; Staindrop, who, from her silvan | Each on his own deep visions bent, bowers,

Silent and sad they onward went. Salutes proud Raby's battled towers; Well may you think that Bertram's The rural brook of Egliston,

mood And Balder, named from Odin's son; To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude;. And Greta, to whose banks ere long Well may you think bold Risingham We lead the lovers of the song ; Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame;




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And small the intercourse, I ween, Stand forth to guard the rearward post, Such uncongenial souls between. The bulwark of the scatter'd host :

All this, and more, might Spenser say, Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way

Yet waste in vain his magic lay, Through Rokeby's park and chase that

While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower

Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. lay, And, skirting high the valley's ridge, Theycross'd by Greta's ancient bridge, ! The open vale is soon passed o'er; Descending where her waters wind

| Rokeby, though nigh, is scen no more; Free for a space and unconfined,

Sinking mid Greta's thickets deep, As, 'scaped from Brignal's dark-wood

: A wild and darker course they keep, glen, She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den.

| A stern and lone, yet lovely road,

As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode! There, as his eye glanced o'er the

Broad shadows o'er their passage fell, mound Raised by that Legion long renown'd, Deeper and narrower grew the dell; Whose votive shrine asserts their :

It seem'd some mountain, rent and

riven, claim

A channel for the stream had given, Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, •Sternsons of war' sad Wilfrid sigh’d, Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way,

So high the cliffs of limestone grey * Behold the boast of Roman pride! What now of all your toils are known? ! Yielding, along their rugged base, A grassy trench, a broken stone!'

A flinty footpath's niggard space,

Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and This to himself; for moral strain To Bertram were address'd in vain.

wave, May hear the headlong torrent rave,

And like a steed in frantic fit, Of different mood, a deeper sigh | That flings the froth from curb and bit, Awoke when Rokeby's turrets high May view her chafe her waves to spray Were northward in the dawning seen O'er every rock that bars her way, To rear them o'er the thicket green. | Till foam-globes on her eddies ride then, though Spenser's self had Thick as the schemes of human pride stray'd

! That down life's current drive amain, Beside him through the lovely glade, , As frail, as frothy, and as vain ! Lending his rich luxuriant glow Of fancy, all its charms to show, Pointing the stream rejoicing free, The cliffs that rear their haughty lead As captive set at liberty,

High o'er the river's darksome bed Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, Were now all naked, wild, and grey, And clamouring joyful on her road; Now waving all with greenwoodspray; Pointing where, up the sunny banks, Here trees to every crevice clung, The trees retire in scatter'd ranks, And o'er the dell their branches hung; Save where, advanced before the rest, And there, all splinter'd and uneven, On knoll or hillock rears his crest, The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven; Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, Oft, too, the ivy swath'd their breast, As champions, when their band is And wreathed its garland round their broke,





Or from the spires bade loosely flare With the bright tints of early day, Its tendrils in the middle air.

Which, glimmering through the ivy As pennons wont to wave of old

spray, O'er the high feast of Baron bold, On the opposing summit lay. When revell'd loud the feudal rout, And the arch'd halls return'd their shout;


The lated peasant shunn'd the dell; Such and more wild is Greta's roar, For Superstition wont to tell And such the echoes from her shore: Of many a grisly sound and sight, And so the ivied banners gleam, Scaring its path at dead of night. Waved wildly o'erthebrawling stream. When Christmas logs blaze high and


Such wonders speed the festal tide; Now from the stream the rocks recede While Curiosity and Fear, But leave between no sunny mead- Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near, No, nor the spot of pebbly sand, Till childhood's check no longer glows, Oft found by such a mountain strand, And village maidens lose the rose. Forming such warm and dry retreat The thrilling interest rises higher, As fancy deems the lonely seat The circle closes nigh and nigher, Where hermit, wandering from his And shuddering glance is cast behind cell,

As louder moans the wintry wind, His rosary might love to tell. Believe, that fitting scene was laid But here, 'twixt rock and river, grew For such wild tales in Mortham glade; A dismal grove of sable yew,

For who had seen on Greta's side, With whose sad tints were mingled By that dim light, fierce Bertram stride, seen

In such a spot, at such an hour,--The blighted fir's sepulchral green. If touch'd by Superstition's power, Seem`d that the trees their shadows Might well have deem'd that Hell had cast,

given The earth that nourish'd them to blast; A murderer's ghost to upper heaven, For never knew that swarthy grove While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to The verdant hue that fairies love;

glide Nor wilding green, nor woodland Like his pale victim by his side. flower,

XI. Arose within its baleful bower: The dank and sable earth receives Nor think to village swains alone Its only carpet from the leaves, Are these unearthly terrors known; That, from the withering branchescast, For not to rank nor sex confined Bestrew'd the groundwith every blast. Is this vain ague of the mind : Though now the sun was o'er the Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, hill,

'Gainst faith, and love, and pity barr'd, In this dark spot 'twas twilight still, Have quaked like aspen leaves in May Save that on Greta's farther side Beneath its universal sway. Some straggling beams through copse Bertram had listed many a tale wood glide;

Of wonder in his native dale, And wild and savage contrast made That in his secret soul retain'd That dingle's deep and funeral shade, The credence theyin childhood gain d;

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