His harp, his story, and his lay,

Oft aid the idle hours away:

When unemploy'd, each fiery mate Is ripe for mutinous debate.

'Though the castle of Richmond stand

fair on the hill,

My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still;

He wakes them, with a blither strain.'

XXX.

SONG.

ALLEN-A-DALE.

Allen-a Dale has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.

Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!

And tell me the craft of bold Allen-aDale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances

in pride,

And he views his domains upon Arkindale side;

The mere for his net, and the land for his game,

The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;

Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;

'Thou see'st that, whether sad or gay,
Love mingles ever in his lay.
But when his boyish wayward fit
Is o'er, he hath address and wit;
O! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape
Each dialect, cach various shape.'

Nay, then, to aid thy project, Guy— Soft! who comes here?' 'My trusty spy. Speak, Hamlin! hast thou lodged our deer?'

'I have-but two fair stags are near.
I watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd
From Egliston up Thorsgill glade;
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side,
And then young Redmond, in his pride,
Shot down to meet them on their way;
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say:

will vail,

Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets

Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she ask'd of his household and home:

Before their path be homeward set.' A hurried and a whisper'd speech Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach; Who, turning to the robber band, Bade four, the bravest, take the brand.

Canto Fourth.

I.

WHEN Denmark's raven soar'd 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 Blacken'd each cataract and spring, Where Tees in tumult leaves his source, Thundering o'er Caldron and HighForce;

Beneath the shade the Northmen came,
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name,
Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone,
And gave their Gods the land they won.
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was
thine,

And one sweet brooklet's silver line,
And Woden's Croft did title gain
From the stern Father of the Slain;
But to the Monarch of the Mace,
That held in fight the foremost place,
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse,
Near Stratforth high they paid their
Vows,

Remember'd Thor's victorious fame,
And gave the dell the Thunderer's

name.

11.

Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, 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 assign'd
To spirits of a gentler kind!
For where the thicket-groups recede,
And the rath 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 frolic sly; And where profuse the wood-vetch clings

Round ash and elm, in verdant rings, Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower Should canopy Titania's bower.

III.

Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade;

But, skirting every sunny glade,
In fair variety of green
The woodland lends its silvan screen.
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak,
And towers crect, in sable spire,
Its boughs by weight of ages broke;
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, round the stems profusely twined,
Fling summer odours on the wind.
Such varied group Urbino's hand
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd,
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-seam'd Veteran's spear.

There Grecian Beauty bent to hear, While Childhood at her foot was placed, Or clung delighted to her waist.

IV.

'And rest we here,' Matilda said, And sat 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 ; Wellnigh 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,

nigh.

Her conscious diffidence he saw, Drew backward, as in modest awe, And sat a little space removed, Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved.

V.

Wreath'd in its dark-brown rings, her hair

Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, Half hid and half reveal'd 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 express'd Aught that waked feeling in her breast, The mantling blood in ready play Rivall'd 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, resign'd; '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 frolic 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.

With a soft vision of her heart,All lower'd around the lovely inaid, To darken her dejection's shade.

VI.

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 imbrued his steel,
Against St. George's cross blazed high
The banners of his Tanistry,
To fiery Essex gave the foil,
And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil?
But chief arose his victor pride,
When that brave Marshal fought and
died,

And Avon-Duff to ocean bore
His billows, red with Saxon gore.
'Twas first in that disastrous fight,
Rokeby and Mortham proved their
might.

There had they fallen 'mongst the rest,
But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast;
The Tanist he to great O'Neale;
He check'd his followers' bloody zeal,
To quarter took the kinsmen bold,
And bore them to his mountain-hold,
Gave them each silvan joy to know,
Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could
show,

Shared with them Erin's festal cheer,
Show'd them the chase of wolf and deer,
And, when a fitting time was come,
Safe and unransom'd sent them home,
Loaded with many a gift, to prove
A generous foe's respect and love.

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,
IIe 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.'

IX.

His look grew fix'd, 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, scream'd the orphan
child.

Was frequent folded round his breast;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore.
He clasp'd a burden to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,
The snow from hair and beard he shook,
And round him gazed with wilder'd
look.

Then up the hall, with staggering pace,
He hasten'd by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air,
His load, a Boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he louted low,
Then stood erect his tale to show,

eyes,

And faintly strove to soothe his cries:
All reckless of his dying pain,
He blest and blest him o'er again!
And kiss'd the little hands outspread,
And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head,
And, in his native tongue and phrase,
Pray'd to each saint to watch his

days;

Then all his strength together drew,
The charge to Rokeby to renew.
When half was falter'd from his breast,
And half by dying signs express'd.
'Bless the O'Neale!' he faintly said,
And thus the faithful spirit fled.

X.

'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'erpower'd at
length,

And stripp'd of all, his failing strength Just bore him here-and then the child

Renew'd again his moaning wild.

XI.

XII.

Butsummer months bring wildingshoot
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 in Rokeby's woods is seen
A gallant boy in hunter's green.
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 gun:
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,
And down its cluster'd stores to hail,
Where young Matilda holds her veil.
And she, whose veil receives the
shower,

Is alter'd 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,

flows

Is like the dewdrop 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 protector smiled, With dimpled cheek and eye so fair, Through his thick curls of flaxen hair: But blithest laugh'd that cheek and cye

When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;

Then blesses her, that man can find A pastime of such savage kind!

XIII.

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 chase,
And knew so well o'er all to throw
His spirit's wild romantic glow,
That, while she blamed, and while
she fear'd,

Matilda's tottering steps to guide;
His native lays in Irish tongue,
To soothe 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.

heard.

Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain
To bower and hall 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: