Nor less his wild adventurous youth
Believed in every legend's truth;
Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale,
Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail,
And the broad Indian moon her light
Pour'd on the watch of middle night,
When seamen love to hear and tell
Of portent, prodigy, and spell:
What gales are sold on Lapland's shore,
How whistle rash bids tempests roar,
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite,
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light;
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form
Shoots like a meteor through the storm;
When the dark scud comes driving
hard,
And lower'd is every topsail-yard,
And canvas, wove in earthly looms,
No more to brave the storm presumes!
Then, 'mid the war of sea and sky,
Top and top-gallant hoisted high,
Full spread and crowded every sail,
The Demon Frigate braves the gale;
And well the doom'd spectators know
The harbinger of wreck and woe.
Then, too, were told, in stifled tone. Marvels and omens all their own; How, by some desert isle or key,
Thus, as a man, a youth, a child,
Train'd in the mystic and the wild,
With this on Bertram's soul at times
Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes;
Such to his troubled soul their form
As the pale Death-ship to the storm,
And such their omen, dim and dread,
As shrieks and voices of the dead.
That pang, whose transitory force
Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse;
That pang, perchance, his bosom
press'd,
As Wilfrid sudden he address'd:—
Wilfrid, this glen is never trode
Until the sun rides high abroad;
Yet twice have I beheld to-day
A Form that seem'd to dog our way;
Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee,
And shroud itself by cliff or tree.
How think'st thou? Is our path way-
laid?
Or hath thy sire my trust betray'd?
If so'-- Ere, starting from his dream,
That turn'd upon a gentler theme,
Wilfrid had roused him to reply,
Bertram sprung forward, shouting
high,
Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand!'
Where Spaniards wrought their And forth he darted, sword in hand.
Now to the oak's warp'd roots he Rude steps ascending from the dell
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings;
Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare
An unsupported leap in air;
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now,
You mark him by the crashing bough,
And by his corslet's sullen clank,
And by the stones spurn'd from the
bank,
Render'd the cliffs accessible.
By circuit slow he thus attain'd
The height that Risingham had gain'd,
And when he issued from the wood,
Before the gate of Mortham stood.
'Twas a fair scene! the sunbeam lay
On battled tower and portal grey:
And from the grassy slope he sees
The Greta flow to meet the Tees;
And by the hawk scared from her Where, issuing from her darksome
And ravens croaking o'er their guest,
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay
The tribute of his bold essay.
See, he emerges desperate now
All farther course; yon beetling brow,
In craggy nakedness sublime,
What heart or foot shall dare to climb?
It bears no tendril for his clasp,
Presents no angle to his grasp :
Sole stay his foot may rest upon
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone.
Balanced on such precarious prop,
He strains his grasp to reach the top.
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes,
By heaven, his faithless footstool
shakes!
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends,
It sways,... it loosens, . . . it de-
scends!
She caught the morning's eastern red,
And through the softening vale below
Roll'd her bright waves, in rosy glow,
All blushing to her bridal bed,
Like some shy maid in convent bred;
While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay,
Sing forth her nuptial roundelay.
'Twas sweetly sung, that roundelay; That summer morn shone blithe and gay;
But morning beam, and wild-bird's
call,
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall.
No porter, by the low-brow'd gate,
Took in the wonted niche his seat;
To the paved court no peasant drew;
Waked to their toil no menial crew;
The maiden's carol was not heard,
As to her morning task she fared:
And downward holds its headlong In the void offices around
Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound;
Crashing o'er rock and copsewood Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh,
Accused the lagging groom's delay;
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell! Untrimm'd, undress'd, neglected now, Fell it alone? Alone it fell
Just on the very verge of fate,
The hardy Bertram's falling weight
He trusted to his sinewy hands,
And on the top unharm'd he stands!
Wilfrid a safer path pursued ;
At intervals where, roughly hew'd,
Was alley'd walk and orchard bough;
All spoke the master's absent care,
All spoke neglect and disrepair.
South of the gate, an arrow-flight,
Two mighty elms their limbs unite,
As if a canopy to spread
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead;
For their huge boughs in arches bent
Above a massive monument,
Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise, With many a scutcheon and device: There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom,
But yet of Bertram sought to know
The apparition's form and show.
The power within the guilty breast,
Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd,
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. That unsubdued and lurking lies
'It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost! Behind this tomb,' he said, 'twas lostThis tomb, where oft I deem'd lies stored
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard.
'Tis true, the aged servants said
Here his lamented wife is laid;
But weightier reasons may be guess'd
For their lord's strict and stern behest,
That none should on his steps intrude,
Whene'er he sought this solitude.---
An ancient mariner I knew,
To take the felon by surprise,
And force him, as by magic spell,
In his despite his guilt to tell,---
That power in Bertram's breast awoke;
Scarce conscious he was heard, he
spoke :
''Twas Mortham's form, from foot to head!
His morion, with the plume of red, His shape, his mien-'twas Mortham right,
As when I slew him in the fight.' Thou slay him? thou?' With conscious start
What time I sail'd with Morgan's He heard, then mann'd his haughty
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake; Adventurous hearts! who barter'd, bold,
Their English steel for Spanish gold.
Trust not, would his experience sy,
Captain or comrade with your prey;
But seek some charnel, when, at full,
The moon gilds skeleton and skull:
There dig, and tomb your precious
heap,
And bid the dead your treasure keep;
Sure stewards they, if fitting spell
Their service to the task compel.
Lacks there such charnel? kill a slave,
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave;
And bid his discontented ghost
Stalk nightly on his lonely post.
Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween,
Is in my morning vision seen.'
Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild, In mingled mirth and pity smiled, Much marvelling that a breast so bold In such fond tale belief should hold;
'I slew him? I! I had forgot
Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the
plot.
But it is spoken; nor will I
Deed done, or spoken word, deny.
I slew him; I for thankless pride;
'Twas by this hand that Mortham died!'
Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart,
Averse to every active part,
But most averse to martial broil,
From danger shrunk, and turn'd from
toil;
Yet the meek lover of the lyre
Nursed one brave spark of noble fire: Against injustice, fraud, or wrong, His blood beat high, his hand wax'd strong.
Not his the nerves that could sustain,
Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain;
But, when that spark blazed forth to
flame,
He rose superior to his frame.
And now it came, that generous mood:
And, in full current of his blood,
On Bertram he laid desperate hand, Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. 'Should every fiend to whom thou'rt sold
Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. Arouse there, ho! take spear and sword!
Attach the murderer of your Lord!'
A moment, fix'd as by a spell,
Stood Bertram. It seem'd miracle
That one so feeble, soft, and tame
Set grasp on warlike Risingham.
But when he felt a feeble stroke,
The fiend within the ruffian woke !
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 fear'd 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 march'd and fought beneath his
sway,
Tamed him—and, with reverted face,
Backwards he bore his sullen pace;
Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared,
To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's | And dark as rated mastiff glared;
To dash him headlong on the sand,
Was but one moment's work,-one
Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore;
But, in the instant it arose,
To end his life, his love, his woes,
A warlike form, that mark'd the scene,
Presents his rapier sheath'd 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 motion'd 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 accent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,
His war-bleach'd locks-'twas Mor-
tham all.
But when the tramp of steeds was
Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd.
Nor longer there the Warrior stood,
Retiring castward through the wood;
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,
'Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.'
Still rung these words in Wilfrid's car,
Hinting he knew not what of fear;
When nearer came the coursers'
tread,
And, with his father at their head,
Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power
Rein'd up their steeds before the tower.
Whence these pale looks, my son?'
'Where's Bertram? why that naked
blade?'
Wilfrid ambiguously replied,
For Mortham's charge his honour
tied,)
'Bertram is gone-the villain's word
Avouch'd him murderer of his lord!
Even 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 dewdrop broke,
And his lip quiver'd as he spoke :
'A murderer! Philip Mortham died
Amid the battle's wildest tide.
Wilfrid or Bertram raves, or you!
Yet, grant such strange confession
truc,
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 follow'd now in Wycliffe's train,
An answer for his lord to gain.
His steed, whose arch'd 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,
(Ilis the old faith) then burst restraint.
"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.
Instant to earth young REDMOND
Instant on carth 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 shoulders threw,
His pistols in his belt he placed,
The greenwood gain'd, 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!'
The horsemen gallop'd, to make good
Each path that issued from the wood.
Loud from the thickets rung the shout
Of Redmond and his eager rout;
With them was Wilfrid, stung with irc,
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,
And shall the murderer 'scape, who Avenger of his kinsman's death ?—
His leader, generous, brave, and true?
Escape, while on the dew you trace
The marks of his gigantic pace?
No! cre the sun that dew shall dry,
False Risingham shall yield or die.
Ring out the castle '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!'
Leaning against the elmin tree,
With drooping head and slacken'd
And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd 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.
What'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd
The morning sun on Mortham's glade?
All seems in giddy round to ride,
Like objects on a stormy tide,
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