And, ere its native heir retire, Nor wander more in Greta shades; On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill; THE CYPRESS WREATH. O Lady, twine no wreath for me, Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine So let the horn and beaker flow To mitigate their parting woe.' Each look and accent, framed to please, Seem'd to affect a playful case; His was the subtle look and sly, Round all the group his glances stole, Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole, Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look, XVII. All that expression base was gone When waked the guest his minstrel tone; It fled at inspiration's call, As erst the demon fled from Saul. The harper came;-in youth's first More free-drawn breath inspired the prime Himself; in mode of olden time XVI. He made obeisance with a free Yet studied air of courtesy. sound, His pulse beat bolder and more high, With condescending kindness, pray'd He has doff'd the silk doublet the The time has been, at such a sound, When Rokeby's vassals gather'd breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down, Heaven shield the brave Gallant that Like trump in dying soldier's ear! fights for the Crown! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws, Her King is his leader, her Church is. his cause; Listless and sad the notes we own, His watchword is honour, his pay is While Rokeby's heir such power renown, retains Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains :-- And lend thy harp; I fain would try XXII. The harper, with a downcast look, And trembling hand, her bounty took. As yet, the conscious pride of art Had steel'd him in his treacherous part; A powerful spring, of force unguess'd, That hath each gentler mood sup press'd, And reign'd in many a human breast; From his that plans the red campaign, To his that wastes the woodland reign. The failing wing, the bloodshot eye, The sportsman marks with apathy, Each feeling of his victim's ill Drown'd in his own successful skill. Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless The veteran, too, who now no more his spear, Aspires to head the battle's roar, Till in peace and in triumph his toils Loves still the triumph of his art, he may drown In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown! XXI. 'Alas!' Matilda said, 'that strain, Good harper, now is heard in vain! And traces on the pencill'd chart Some stern invader's destined way, Through blood and ruin, to his prey; Patriots to death, and towns to flame, He dooms, to raise another's name, And shares the guilt, though not the fame. What pays him for his span of time XXIII. But principles in Edmund's mind Were baseless, vague, and undefined. His soul, like bark with rudder lost. On Passion's changeful tide was tost: Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power Beyond the impression of the hour; And O! when Passion rules, how rare The hours that fall to Virtue's share! Yet now she roused her for the pride, That lack of sterner guilt supplied, Could scarce support him when arose The lay that mourned Matilda's woes. SONG. THE FAREWELL. 'The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear, Must part before the day. Their scutcheons may descend, Shall bid those echoes swell; The Lady paused, and then again XXIV. 'Let our halls and towers decay, Be our name and line forgot, Lands and manors pass away,— We but share our Monarch's lot. If no more our annals show Battles won and banners taken, Still in death, defeat, and woe, Ours be loyalty unshaken! Constant still in danger's hour, Princes own'd our fathers' aid; Lands and honours, wealth and power, Well their loyalty repaid. Perish wealth, and power, and pride! Mortal boons by mortals given; But let Constancy abide,— Constancy's the gift of Heaven.' XXV. While thus Matilda's lay was heard Claiming respect, yet waiving state, But while her energy of mind In Winston bowers he mused alone, The face, the air, the voice divine, XXVI. 'Such was my vision!' Edmund thought; And have I, then, the ruin wrought |