Hark thee apart!"-They whisper'd

long,

Till Denzil's voice grew bold and strong:

"My proofs! I never will," he said,
"Show mortal man where they are laid.
Nor hope discovery to foreclose,
By giving me to feed the crows;
For I have mates at large, who know
Where I am wont such toys to stow.
Free me from peril and from band,
These tablets are at thy command;
Nor were it hard to form some train,
To wile old Mortham o'er the main.
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand
Should wrest from thine the goodly
land."

"I like thy wit," said Wycliffe, "well;
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell.
Thy son, unless my purpose err,
May prove the trustier messenger.
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear
From me, and fetch these tokens rare.
Gold shalt thou have, and that good
store,

And freedom, his commission o'er; But if his faith should chance to fail, The gibbet frees thee from the jail."

XVII.

'Mesh'd in the net himself had twined,
What subterfuge could Denzil find?
He told me, with reluctant sigh,
That hidden here the tokens lie;
Conjured my swift return and aid
By all he scoff'd and disobey'd,
And look'd as if the noose were tied,
And I the priest who left his side.
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave,
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave;
Or in the hut where chief he hides,
Where Thorsgill's forester resides.
(Thence chanced it, wandering in the
glade,

That he descried our ambuscade.)
I was dismiss'd as evening fell,
And reach'd but now this rocky cell.'

'GiveOswald's letter.'-Bertram read,
And tore it fiercely, shred by shred:-
'All lies and villany! to blind
His noble kinsman's generous mind,
And train him on from day to day,
Till he can take his life away.
And now, declare thy purpose, youth,
Nor dare to answer, save the truth;
If aught I mark of Denzil's art,
I'll tear the secret from thy heart!'

XVIII.

'It needs not. I renounce,' he said, 'My tutor and his deadly trade. Fix'd was my purpose to declare To Mortham, Redmond is his heir; To tell him in what risk he stands, And yield these tokens to his hands. Fix'd was my purpose to atone, Far as I may, the evil done; And fix'd it rests-if I survive This night, and leave this cave alive.'— 'And Denzil?'-'Let them ply the

rack,

Even till his joints and sinews crack! If Oswald tear him limb from limb, What ruth can Denzil claim from him, Whose thoughtless youth he led astray, And damn'd to this unhallow'd way? He school'd me, faith and vows were vain;

Now let my master reap his gain.'
'True,' answer'd Bertram, 'tis his
meed;

There's retribution in the deed.
But thou-thou art not for our course,
Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse;
And he, with us the gale who braves,
Must heave such cargo to the waves,
Or lag with overloaded prore,
While barks unburden'd reach the
shore.'

XIX.

He paused, and, stretching him at length,

Seem'd to repose his bulky strength.

Communing with his secret mind,
As half he sat, and half reclined,
One ample hand his forehead press'd,
And one was dropp'd across his breast.
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came
Above his eyes of swarthy flame;
His lip of pride awhile forbore
The haughty curve till then it wore;
The unalter'd fierceness of his look
A shade of darken'd sadness took,-
For dark and sad a presage press'd
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast,-
And when he spoke, his wonted tone,
So fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone.
His voice was steady, low, and deep,
Like distant waves when breezes sleep;
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear,
Its low unbroken depth to hear.

XX.

Edmund, in thy sad tale I find The woe that warp'd my patron's mind: 'Twould wake the fountains of the eye

In other men, but mine are dry.
Mortham must never see the fool
That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool;
Yet less from thirst of sordid gain,
Than to avenge supposed disdain.
Say, Bertram rues his fault;-a word,
Till now, from Bertram never heard:
Say, too, that Mortham's Lord he
prays

To think but on their former days;
On Quariana's beach and rock,
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock,
On Darien's sands and deadly dew,
And on the dart Tlatzeca threw ;-
Perchance my patron yet may hear
More that may grace his comrade's
bier.

My soul hath felt a secret weight,
A warning of approaching fate:
A priest had said, "Return, repent!'
As well to bid that rock be rent.
Firm as that flint I face mine end;
My heart may burst, but cannot bend.

XXI.

The dawning of my youth, with awe,
And prophecy, the Dalesmen saw;

For over Redesdale it came,
As bodeful as their beacon-flame.
Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine,
When, challenging the clans of Tyne
To bring their best my brand to prove,
O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove;
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town,
Held champion meet to take it down.
My noontide, India may declare ;
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air!
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly
Her natives, from mine angry eye.
Panama's maids shall long look pale
When Risingham inspires the tale;
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame
The froward child with Bertram's name.
And now, my race of terror run,
Mine be the eve of tropic sun!
No pale gradations quench his ray,
No twilight dews his wrath allay;
With disk like battle-target red,
He rushes to his burning bed,
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,
Then sinks at once-and all is night.

XXII.

'Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, Seek Mortham out, and bid him hic To Richmond, where his troops are laid,

And lead his force to Redmond's aid. Say, till he reaches Egliston,

A friend will watch to guard his son. Now, fare-thee-well; for night draws

on,

And I would rest me here alone.'
Despite his ill-dissembled fear,
There swam in Edmund's eye a tear;
A tribute to the courage high
Which stoop'd not in extremity,
But strove, irregularly great,
To triumph o'er approaching fate!
Bertram beheld the dewdrop start,
It almost touch'd his iron heart:-

'I did not think there lived,' he said, 'One who would tear for Bertram

shed.'

He loosen'd then his baldric's hold,
A buckle broad of massive gold ;-
'Of all the spoil that paid his pains,
But this with Risingham remains;
And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take,
And wear it long for Bertram's sake.
Once more to Mortham speed amain;
Farewell and turn thee not again.'

XXIII.

The night has yielded to the morn,
And far the hours of prime are worn.
Oswald, who, since the dawn of day,
Had cursed his messenger's delay,
Impatient question'd now his train,
'Was Denzil's son return'd again?'
It chanced there answer'd of the crew,
A menial, who young Edmund knew:
'No son of Denzil this,' he said;
'A peasant boy from Winston glade,
For song and minstrelsy renown'd,
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round.'
'Not Denzil's son!-From Winston
vale!--

Then it was false, that specious tale;
Or, worse, he hath despatch'd the youth
To show to Mortham's Lord its truth.
Fool that I was!-but 'tis too late;-
This is the very turn of fate!-
The tale, or true or false, relies
On Denzil's evidence!-He dies!-
Ho! Provost Marshall! instantly
Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree!
Allow him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!
Then let his gory head appal
Marauders from the Castle-wall.
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done,
With best despatch to Egliston.
-Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight
Attend me at the Castle-gate.'

XXIV.

'Alas!' the old domestic said, And shook his venerable head,

'Alas, my Lord! full ill to-day
May my young master brook the way!
The leech has spoke with grave alarm
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm,
Of sorrow lurking at the heart,
That mars and lets his healing art.'-
Tush, tell not me!-Romantic boys
Pine themselves sick for airy toys.
I will find cure for Wilfrid soon;
Bid him for Egliston be boune,
And quick!-I hear the dull death-drum
Tell Denzil's hour of fate is comc.'
He paused with scornful smile, and then
Resumed his train of thought agen.
'Now comes my fortune's crisis near!
Entreaty boots not-instant fear,
Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride,
Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride.
But when she sees the scaffold placed,
With axe and block and headsman
graced,

And when she deems, that to deny
Dooms Redmond and her sire to dic,
She must give way. Then, were the
line

Of Rokeby once combined with mine,
I gain the weather-gage of fate!
If Mortham come, he comes too late,
While I, allied thus and prepared,

Bid him defiance to his beard.
If she prove stubborn, shall I dare
To drop the axe?-soft! pause wethere.
Mortham still lives--yon youth may tell
Histale and Fairfax loves him well;-
Else, wherefore should I now delay
To sweep this Redmond from my
way?

But she to piety perforce
Must yield. Without there! sound
to horse.'

XXV.

'Twas bustle in the court below: 'Mount, and march forward--Forth

they go;

Steeds neigh and trample all around, Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets sound.

Just then was sung his parting hymn;
And Denzil turn'd his eyeballs dim,
And, scarcely conscious what he sees,
Follows the horsemen down the Tees;
And scarcely conscious what he hears,
The trumpets tingle in his ears.
O'er the long bridge they're sweeping
now,

The van is hid by greenwood bough;
But ere the rearward had pass'd o'er,
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more!
One stroke, upon the Castle bell,
To Oswald rung his dying knell.

XXVI.

Oh for that pencil, erst profuse
Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues,
That traced of old, in Woodstock bower,
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower,
And bodied forth the tourney high
Held for the hand of Emily!
Then might I paint the tumult broad
That to the crowded abbey flow'd,
And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound,
Into the church's ample bound!
Then might I show each varying mien,
Exulting, woful, or serene;
Indifference, with his idiot stare,
And Sympathy, with anxious air;
Paint the dejected Cavalier,
Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer;
And his proud foe, whose formal eye
Claim'd conquest now and mastery;
And the brute crowd, whose envious
zcal

Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel,
And loudest shouts when lowest lie
Exalted worth and station high.
Yet what may such a wish avail ?
'Tis mine to tell an onward tale,
Hurrying, as best I can, along,
The hearers and the hasty song;-
Like traveller when approaching
home,

Who sees the shades of evening come,
And must not now his course delay,
Or choose the fair but winding way;

Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, Where o'er his head the wildings bend, To bless the breeze that cools his brow, Or snatch a blossom from the bough.

XXVII.

The reverend pile lay wild and waste,
Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced.
Through storied lattices no more
In soften'd light the sunbeams pour,
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich
Of shrine, and monument, and niche.
The Civil fury of the time

Made sport of sacrilegious crime;
For dark Fanaticism rent

Altar, and screen, and ornament,
And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh.
And now was seen, unwonted sight,
In holy walls a scaffold dight!

Where once the priest, of grace divine
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign;
There stood the block display'd, and
there

The headsman grim his hatchet bare ; And for the word of Hope and Faith, Resounded loud a doom of death. Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was heard,

And echo'd thrice the herald's word, | Dooming, for breach of martial laws, And treason to the Commons' cause, The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale To stoop their heads to block and steel. The trumpets flourish'dhigh and shrill, Then was a silence dead and still; Andsilent prayers to heaven were cast, And stifled sobs were bursting fast, Till from the crowd begun to rise Murmurs of sorrow or surprise, And from the distant aisles there came Deep-mutter'd threats, with Wycliffe's

name.

XXVIII.

But Oswald, guarded by his band, Powerful in evil, waved his hand, And bade Sedition's voice be dead, On peril of the murmurer's head.

Knight;

Who gazed on the tremendous sight
As calm as if he came a guest
To kindred Baron's feudal feast,
As calm as if that trumpet-call
Were summons to the banner'd hall;
Firm in his loyalty he stood,

And prompt to seal it with his blood. With downcast look drew Oswald nigh,

Scarce audible,-'I make my choice! Spare but their lives!-foraught beside, Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. He once was generous!'-As she spoke,

Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke:'Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late? Why upon Basil rest thy weight? Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand?

eye!

And said, with low and faltering breath,

Thou know'st the terms of life and death.'

smiled:

hand;

Thank her with raptures, simple boy! Should tears and trembling speak thy joy?'

'The maiden is mine only child,

Yet shall my blessing leave her head,
If with a traitor's son she wed.'
Then Redmond spoke: "The life of one
Might thy malignity atone,

On me be flung a double guilt!

XXX.

He took Matilda's hand:-'Dear maid, Couldst thou so injure me,' he said,

spilt!'

Wycliffe had listen'd to his suit,

But dread prevail'd, and he was mute.

XXIX.

And now he pours his choice of fear
In secret on Matilda's ear;
'An union form'd with me and mine
Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line.
Consent, and all this dread array,
Like morning dream, shall pass away;
Refuse, and, by my duty press'd,
I give the word-thou know'st the
rest.'

Matilda, still and motionless,
With terror heard the dread address,
Pale as the sheeted maid who dies
To hopeless love a sacrifice;
Then wrung her hands in agony,
And round her cast bewilder'd eye,
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now
On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow.

As blend with him this barbarous scheme?

Alas! my efforts, made in vain,
Might well have saved this added pain.
But now, bear witness earth and
heaven,

That ne'er was hope to mortal given,
So twisted with the strings of life,
As this to call Matilda wife!
I bid it now for ever part,
And with the effort bursts my heart!'
His feeble frame was worn so low
With wounds, with watching, and with
woe,

That nature could no more sustain
The agony of mental pain.

IIe kneel'd-his lip her hand had press'd,

Just then he felt the stern arrest; Lower and lower sunk his head,They raised him, but the life was fled!