And, ere its native heir retire,
Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
While this poor harper, by the blaze,
Recounts the tale of other days.
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed,
Admit him, and relieve each need.
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try
Thy minstrel skill? Nay, no reply-
And look not sad! I guess thy thought,
Thyverse with laurels would be bought,
And poor Matilda, landless now,
Has not a garland for thy brow.
True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's
glades,

Nor wander more in Greta shades;
But sure, no rigid jailer, thou
Wilt a short prison-walk allow,
Where summer flowers grow wild at
will,

On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill;
Then holly green and lily gay
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.'
The mournful youth, a space aside,
To tune Matilda's harp applied;
And then a low sad descant rung,
As prelude to the lay he sung.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

O Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
Mayshade a browless sad than mine;
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

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 face was of that doubtful kind
That wins the eye, but not the mind;
Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss
Of brow so young and smooth as
this.

His was the subtle look and sly,
That, spying all, seems nought to
spy;

Round all the group his glances stole, Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole,

Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look,
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook.
To the suspicious, or the old,
Subtile and dangerous and bold
Had seem'd this self-invited guest;
But young our lovers,-and the rest,
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear
At parting of their mistress dear,
Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall
Came as to bear her funeral pall.

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.
More noble glance he cast around,

prime

Himself; in mode of olden time
His garb was fashion'd, to express
The ancient English minstrel's dress,
A seemly gown of Kendal green,
With gorget closed of silver sheen;
His harp in silken scarf was slung,
And by his side an anlace hung.
It seem'd some masquer's quaint array
For revel or for holiday.

XVI.

He made obeisance with a free Yet studied air of courtesy.

sound,

His pulse beat bolder and more high,
In all the pride of minstrelsy!
Alas! too soon that pride was o'er,
Sunk with the lay that bade it soar !
His soul resumed, with habit's chain,
Its vices wild and follies vain,
And gave the talent, with him born,
To be a common curse and scorn.
Such was the youth whom Rokeby's
maid,

With condescending kindness, pray'd
Here to renew the strains she loved,
At distance heard and well approved.

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,

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,
The power to answer them is flown.
Yet not without his meet applause
Be he that sings the rightful cause,
Even when the crisis of its fate
To human eye seems desperate.

renown,

retains

Let this slight guerdon pay thy

pains :--

And lend thy harp; I fain would try
If my poor skill can aught supply,
Ere yet I leave my fathers' hall,
To mourn the cause in which we fall.'

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.

his spear,

Aspires to head the battle's roar,

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
Spent in premeditating crime?
What against pity arms his heart?—
It is the conscious pride of art.

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,
They mingle with the song:
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,
I must not hear them long.
From every loved and native haunt
The native heir must stray,
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams
daunt,

Must part before the day.
Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd,

Their scutcheons may descend,
A line so long beloved and fear'd
May soon obscurely end.
No longer here Matilda's tone

Shall bid those echoes swell;
Yet shall they hear her proudly own
The cause in which we fell.'

The Lady paused, and then again
Resumed the lay in loftier strain.

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
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody;
And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,

Claiming respect, yet waiving state,
That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'er-
thrown;

But while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty,--
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd
The very object he had dream'd;
When, long ere guilt his soul had
known,

In Winston bowers he mused alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine

The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of princess fair, by cruel fate
Reft of her honours, power, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restored
By destined hero's conquering sword.

XXVI.

'Such was my vision!' Edmund thought;

And have I, then, the ruin wrought