Thus, from their childhood, blending From such examples hope he drew, And brighten'd as the trumpet blew.
Their sport, their study, and their skill,
A union of the soul they prove,
But must not think that it was love.
But though they dared not, envious
Fame
Soon dared to give that union name;
And when so often, side by side,
From year to year the pair she eyed,
She sometimes blamed the good old
Knight,
As dull of ear and dim of sight,
Sometimes his purpose would declare,
That young O'Neale should wed his
heir.
The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise
And bandage from the lovers' eyes;
'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son,
Had Rokeby's favour wellnigh won.
Now must they meet with change of
cheer,
If brides were won by heart and blade,
Redmond had both his cause to aid,
And all beside of nurture rare
That might beseem a baron's heir.
Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife,
On Rokeby's Lord bestow'd his life,
And well did Rokeby's generous
knight
Young Redmond for the deed requite.
Nor was his liberal care and cost
Upon the gallant stripling lost :
Seek the North-Riding broad and wide,
Like Redmond none could steed
From Tynemouth search to Cumber
Like Redmond none could wield a
brand;
And then, of humour kind and free,
And bearing him to each degree
There never youth was form'd to steal
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale,
With mutual looks of shame and fear; With frank and fearless courtesy,
Now must Matilda stray apart,
To school her disobedient heart:
And Redmond now alone must rue
The love he never can subdue.
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware,
No rebel's son should wed his heir;
And Redmond, nurtured while a child
In many a bard's traditions wild,
Now sought the lonely wood or stream,
To cherish there a happier dream,
Of maiden won by sword or lance,
As in the regions of romance;
And count the heroes of his line,
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,
Shane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine,
And Connan-More, who vow'd his race
For ever to the fight and chase,
And cursed him, of his lineage born,
Should sheathe the sword to reap the
Sir Richard loved him as his son;
And when the days of peace were
done,
Or leave the mountain and the wold,
To shroud himself in castled hold.
And to the gales of war he gave
The banner of his sires to wave,
Redmond, distinguish'd by his care,
He chose that honour'd flag to bear,
And named his page, the next degree,
In that old time, to chivalry.
In five pitch'd fields he well maintain'd
The honour'd place his worth obtain'd,
And high was Redmond's youthful
Blazed in the roll of martial fame.
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight,
The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight;
Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful strife,
Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life,
But when he saw him prisoner made,
He kiss'd and then resign'd his blade,
And yielded him an easy prey
To those who led the Knight away;
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove
In prison, as in fight, his love.
When lovers meet in adverse hour, 'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower,
A wat'ry ray an instant seen The darkly closing clouds between. As Redmond on the turf reclined, The past and present fill'd his mind: 'It was not thus,' Affection said, 'I dream'd of my return, dear maid! Not thus, when, from thy trembling hand,
I took the banner and the brand, When round me, as the bugles blew, Their blades three hundred warriors drew,
And, while the standard I unroll'd, Clash'd their bright arms, with clamour bold.
Where is that banner now?—its pride
Lies 'whelm'd in Ouse's sullen tide!
Where now these warriors?-in their
gore,
They cumber Marston's dismal moor!
And what avails a useless brand,
Held by a captive's shackled hand,
That only would his life retain,
To aid thy sire to bear his chain !'
Thus Redmond to himself apart;
Nor lighter was his rival's heart;
For Wilfrid, while his generous soul
Disdain'd to profit by control,
By many a sign could mark too plain,
Save with such aid, his hopes were vain.
But now Matilda's accents stole
On the dark visions of their soul,
And bade their mournful musing fly,
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh.
I need not to my friends recall, How Mortham shunn'd my father's hall;
A man of silence and of woe,
Yet ever anxious to bestow
On my poor self whate'er could
A kinsman's confidence and love.
My feeble aid could sometimes chase
The clouds of sorrow for a space :
But oftener, fix'd beyond my power,
I mark'd his deep despondence lower.
One dismal cause, by all unguess'd,
His fearful confidence confess'd;
And twice it was my hap to see
Examples of that agony,
Which for a season can o'erstrain
And wreck the structure of the brain.
He had the awful power to know
The approaching mental overthrow,
And while his mind had courage yet
To struggle with the dreadful fit,
The victim writhed against its throes,
Like wretch beneath a murderer's
blows.
This malady, I well could mark, Sprung from some direful cause and dark;
But still he kept its source conceal'd,
Till arming for the civil field;
Then in my charge he bade me hold
A treasure huge of gems and gold,
With this disjointed dismal scroll,
That tells the secret of his soul,
In such wild words as oft betray
A mind by anguish forced astray.'-
MORTHAM'S HISTORY. 'Matilda! thou hast seen me start, As if a dagger thrill'd my heart, When it has hap'd some casual phrase Waked memory of my former days. Believe, that few can backward cast Their thoughts with pleasure on the
But I my youth was rash and vain,
And blood and rage my manhood stain,
And my grey hairs must now descend
To my cold grave without a friend!
Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown
Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known.
And must I lift the bloody veil
That hides my dark and fatal tale?
I must-I will- Pale phantom, cease!
Leave me one little hour in peace!
Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill
Thine own commission to fulfil?
Or, while thou point'st with gesture
fierce,
Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse,
How can I paint thee as thou wert,
So fair in face, so warm in heart?
'Yes, she was fair!-Matilda, thou
Hast a soft sadness on thy brow;
But hers was like the sunny glow
That laughs on earth and all below!
We wedded secret-there was need-
Differing in country and in creed;
And, when to Mortham's tower she
came,
We mention'd not her race and name,
Until thy sire, who fought afar,
Should turn him home from foreign
war,
On whose kind influence we relied
To soothe her father's ire and pride.
Few months we lived retired, unknown,
To all but one dear friend alone,
One darling friend-I spare his shame,
I will not write the villain's name!
My trespasses I might forget,
And sue in vengeance for the debt
Due by a brother worm to me,
Ungrateful to God's clemency,
That spared me penitential time,
Nor cut me off amid my crime.
'A kindly smile to all she lent,
So kind, that, from its harmless glee,
The wretch misconstrued villany.
Repulsed in his presumptuous love,
A 'vengeful snare the traitor wove.
Alone we sat-the flask had flow'd,
My blood with heat unwonted glow'd,
When through the alley'd walk we
spied
With hurried step my Edith glide,
Cowering beneath the verdant screen,
As one unwilling to be seen.
Words cannot paint the fiendish smile
That curl'd the traitor's check the while!
Fiercely I question'd of the cause;
He made a cold and artful pause,
Then pray'd it might not chafe my
mood-
"There was a gallant in the wood!"
We had been shooting at the deer;
My cross-bow (evil chance!, was near:
That ready weapon of my wrath
I caught, and, hasting up the path,
In the yew grove my wife I found.
A stranger's arms her neck had bound!
II mark'd his heart-the bow I drew-
I loosed the shaft-'twas more than
true!
I found my Edith's dying charms
Lock'd in her murder'd brother's arms!
He came in secret to inquire
Her state, and reconcile her sire.
'All fled my rage-the villain first,
Whose craft my jealousy had nursed;
He sought in far and foreign clime
To 'scape the vengeance of his crime.
The manner of the slaughter done
Was known to few, my guilt to none;
Some tale my faithful steward framed---
I know not what-of shaft mis-aim'd;
And even from those the act who knew,
He hid the hand from which it flew.
Untouch'd by human laws I stood,
But God had heard the cry of blood!
There is a blank upon my mind,
But on her husband's friend 'twas bent A fearful vision ill-defined,
Of raving till my flesh was torn,
Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn-
And when I waked to woe more mild,
And question'd of my infant child-
(Have I not written, that she bare
A boy, like summer morning fair?--
With looks confused my menials tell
That armed men in Mortham dell
Beset the nurse's evening way,
And bore her, with her charge, away.
My faithless friend, and none but he,
Could profit by this villany;
Him, then, I sought, with purpose dread
Of treble vengeance on his head!
He'scaped me-but my bosom's wound
Some faint relief from wandering found;
And over distant land and sea
I bore my load of misery.
'I heard-obey'd-and homeward
The fiercest of our desperate crew
I brought, at time of need to aid
My purposed vengeance, long delay'd.
But, humble be my thanks to Heaven,
That better hopes and thoughts has
given,
And by our Lord's dear prayer has taught,
Mercy by mercy must be bought!Let me in misery rejoice
I've seen his face-I've heard his voice
I claim'd of him my only child;
As he disown'd the theft, he smiled!
That very calm and callous look,
That fiendish sneer his visage took,
As when he said, in scornful mood,
"There is a gallant in the wood!"-
I did not slay him as he stood-
All praise be to my Maker given !
Long suffrance is one path to Heaven.'
Thus far the woful tale was heard,
When something in the thicket stirr'd.
Up Redmond sprung; the villain Guy
(For he it was that lurk'd so nigh)
Drew back-he durst not cross his steel
A moment's space with brave O'Neale,
A wretch, whose sorrows match'd my For all the treasured gold that rests
Till he had Redmond full in view;
The gun he levell'd-mark like this
Was Bertram never known to miss,
When fair opposed to aim there sate
An object of his mortal hate.
That day young Redmond's death had
But twice Matilda came between
The carabine and Redmond's breast,
Just ere the spring his finger press'd.
A deadly oath the ruffian swore,
But yet his fell design forbore:
'It ne'er,' he mutter'd, 'shall be said,
That thus I scath'd thee, haughty maid!'
Then moved to seek more open aim,
When to his side Guy Denzil came:
'Bertram, forbear! we are undone
For ever, if thou fire the gun.
By all the fiends, an armed force
Descends the dell, of foot and horse!
We perish if they hear a shot-
Madman we have a safer plot-
Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee
back!
Behold, down yonder hollow track,
The warlike leader of the band
Comes, with his broadsword in his
hand.'
Bertram look'd up; he saw, he knew That Denzil's fears had counsell'd true, Then cursed his fortune and withdrew, Threaded the woodlands undescried, And gain'd the cave on Greta side.
They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath,
Doom'd to captivity or death,
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent,
Saw not nor heard the ambushment.
Heedless and unconcern'd they sate,
While on the very verge of fate;
Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd,
When Heaven the murderer's arm
restrain'd;
As ships drift darkling down the tide, Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide.
Uninterrupted thus they heard
What Mortham's closing tale declared.
He spoke of wealth as of a load,
By Fortune on a wretch bestow'd,
In bitter mockery of hate,
His cureless woes to aggravate;
But yet he pray'd Matilda's care
Might save that treasure for his heir-
His Edith's son - for still he raved
As confident his life was saved;
In frequent vision, he averr'd,
He saw his face, his voice he heard;
Then argued calm-had murder been,
The blood, the corpses, had been seen;
Some had pretended, too, to mark
On Windermere a stranger bark,
Whose crew, with jealous care, yet
mild,
Guarded a female and a child.
While these faint proofs he told and
press'd,
Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast; Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, It warp'd his judgment and his brain.
These solemn words his story close:-
'Heaven witness for me, that I chose
My part in this sad civil fight,
Moved by no cause but England's right.
My country's groans have bid me draw
My sword for gospel and for law;-
These righted, I fling arms aside,
And seek my son through Europe wide.
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh
Already casts a grasping eye,
With thee may unsuspected lie.
When of my death Matilda hears,
Let her retain her trust three years;
If none, from me, the treasure claim,
Perish'd is Mortham's race and name:
Then let it leave her generous hand,
And flow in bounty o'er the land;
Soften the wounded prisoner's lot,
Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot;
So spoils, acquired by fight afar,
Shall mitigate domestic war.'
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