XXIX.

The generous youths, who well had

known

Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone,
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved,
Gave sympathy his woes deserved;
But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd
Why Mortham wish'd his life conceal'd,
In secret, doubtless, to pursue
The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew.
Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell,
That she would share her father's cell,
His partner of captivity,

Where'er his prison-house should be;
Yet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall,
Dismantled, and forsook by all,
Open to rapine and to stealth,
Had now no safeguard for the wealth
Entrusted by her kinsman kind,
And for such noble use design'd.
'Was Barnard Castle then her choice,'
Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice,
'Since there the victor's laws ordain,
Her father must a space remain?'
A flutter'd hope his accents shook,
A flutter'd joy was in his look.
Matilda hasten'd to reply,
For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye:-
'Duty,' she said, with gentle grace,
'Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place;
Else had I for my sire assign'd
Prison less galling to his mind,
Than that his wild-wood haunts which

I have beneath mine own command,
So wills my sire, a gallant band,
And well could send some horseman
wight

To bear the treasure forth by night,
And so bestow it as you deem
In these ill days may safest seem.'-
'Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks,' she
said:

O, be it not one day delay'd!
And, more, thy sister-friend to aid,
Be thou thyself content to hold,
In thine own keeping, Mortham's gold,
Safest with thee.'-While thus she
spoke,

Arm'd soldiers on their converse broke,
The same of whose approach afraid,
The ruffians left their ambuscade.
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low,
Then look'd around as for a foe.
'What mean'st thou, friend,' young
Wycliffe said,

'Why thus in arms beset the glade?'
'That would I gladly learn from you;
For up my squadron as I drew,
To exercise our martial game
Upon the moor of Barninghame,
A stranger told you were waylaid,
Surrounded, and to death betray'd.
He had a leader's voice, I ween,
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien.
He bade me bring you instant aid;
I doubted not, and I obey'd.'

XXXI.

Wilfrid changed colour, and, amazed,
Turn'dshort, and on the speaker gazed;
While Redmond every thicket round
Track'd earnest as a questing hound,
And Denzil's carabine he found;
Sure evidence, by which they knew
The warning was as kind as true.
Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed
To leave the dell. It was agreed
That Redmond, with Matilda fair,
And fitting guard, should home repair;
At nightfall Wilfrid should attend,
With a strong band, his sister-friend,

To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers
To Barnard Castle's lofty towers,
Secret and safe, the banded chests
In which the wealth of Mortham rests.
This hasty purpose fix'd, they part,
Each with a grieved and anxious heart.

Canto Fifth.

I.

THE sultry summer day is done,
The western hills have hid the sun,
But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire.

Old Barnard's towers are purple still
To those that gaze from Toller-hill;
Distant and high, the tower of Bowes
Like steel upon the anvil glows;
And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay,
Rich with the spoils of parting day,
In crimson and in gold array'd,
Streaks yet a while the closing shade,
Then slow resigns to darkening heaven
The tints which brighter hours had
given.

Thus aged men, full loth and slow,
The vanities of life forego,
And count their youthful follies o'er,
Till Memory lends her light no more.

II.

The eve, that slow on upland fades, Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades, Where, sunk within their banks profound,

For louder clamour'd Greta's tide,
And Tees in deeper voice replied,
And fitful waked the evening wind,
Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd.
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul
Felt in the scene a soft control,
With lighter footstep press'd the
ground,

And often paused to look around;
And, though his path was to his love,
Could not but linger in the grove
To drink the thrilling interest dear,
Of awful pleasure check'd by fear.
Such inconsistent moods have we,
Even when our passions strike the key.

III.

Now, through the wood's dark mazes past,

The opening lawn he reach'd at last,
Where, silver'd by the moonlight ray,
The ancient Hall before him lay.
Those martial terrors long were fled
That frown'd of old around its head:
The battlements, the turrets grey,
Seem'd half abandon'd to decay;
On barbican and keep of stone
Stern Time the foeman's work had
done.

Where banners the invader braved,
The harcbell now and wallflower

waved;

wound.

The stately oaks, whose sombre frown
Of noontide made a twilight brown,
Impervious now to fainter light,
Of twilight make an early night.
Hoarse into middle air arose
The vespers of the roosting crows,
And with congenial murmurs seem
To wake the Genii of the stream;

The grim portcullis gone-and all The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall.

IV.

But yet precautions, lately ta'en, Show'd danger's day revived again; The court-yard wall show'd marks of

care,

The fall'n defences to repair,

N

The maid her lovers sat between,
With open brow and equal mien ;
It is a sight but rarely spied,
Thanks to man's wrath and woman's
pride.

VII.

While thus in peaceful guise they sate
A knock alarm'd the outer gate,
And ere the tardy porter stirr'd
The tinkling of a harp was heard.
A manly voice, of mellow swell,
Bore burden to the music well.

SONG.

'Summer eve is gone and past,
Summer dew is falling fast;
I have wander'd all the day,
Do not bid me farther stray!
Gentle hearts, of gentle kin,
Take the wandering harper in !'

But the stern porter answer gave, With 'Get thee hence, thou strolling knave!

The king wants soldiers; war, I trow, Were meeter trade for such as thou.' At this unkind reproof, again Answer'd the ready minstrel's strain.

SONG RESUMED.

'Bid not me, in battle-field, Buckler lift, or broadsword wield! All my strength and all my art Is to touch the gentle heart With the wizard notes that ring From the peaceful minstrel-string.' The porter, all unmoved, replied,— 'Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide;

If longer by the gate thou dwell, Trust me, thou shalt not part so well.'

VIII.

With somewhat of appealing look, The harper's part young Wilfrid took: 'These notes so wild and ready thrill, They show no vulgar minstrel's skill;

Hard were his task to seek a home
More distant, since the night is come;
And for his faith I dare engage-
Your Harpool's blood is sour'd by age;
His gate, once readily display'd
To greet the friend, the poor to aid,
Now even to me, though known of old,
Did but reluctantly unfold.'-
'O blame not, as poor Harpool's crime,
An evil of this evil time.
He deems dependent on his care
The safety of his patron's heir,
Nor judges meet to ope the tower
To guest unknown at parting hour,
Urging his duty to excess

Of rough and stubborn faithfulness.
For this poor harper, I would fain
He may relax :--Hark to his strain!'-

IX.

SONG RESUMED.

'I have song of war for knight,
Lay of love for lady bright,
Fairy tale to lull the heir,
Goblin grim the maids to scare;
Dark the night, and long till day,
Do not bid me farther stray!

Rokeby's lords of martial fame,
I can count them name by name;
Legends of their line there be,
Known to few, but known to me;
If you honour Rokeby's kin
Take the wandering harper in!

Rokeby's lords had fair regard
For the harp and for the bard;
Baron's race throve never well
Where the curse of minstrel fell;
If you love that noble kin
Take the weary harper in!'-
'Hark! Harpool parley's-there is
hope,'

Said Redmond, 'that the gate will ope.'

For all thy brag and boast, I trow, Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow,'

Quoth Harpool, nor how Greta-side
She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide;
Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the
beast

To Richmond's friars to make a feast.
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale
Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale,
That well could strike with sword
amain,

And of the valiant son of Spain,
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph;
There were a jest to make us laugh!
If thou canst tell it, in yon shed
Thou'st won thy supper and thy bed.'

X.

Matilda smiled; 'Cold hope,' said she,
'From Harpool's love of minstrelsy!
But, for this harper, may we dare,
Redmond, to mend his couch and fare?'
'O, ask me not! At minstrel-string
My heart from infancy would spring;
Nor can I hear its simplest strain
But it brings Erin's dream again,
When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee,
(The Filea of O'Neale was he,

A blind and bearded man, whose eld
Was sacred as a prophet's held,)
I've seen a ring of rugged kerne,
With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern,
Enchanted by the master's lay,
Linger around the livelong day,
Shift from wild rage to wilder glee,
To love, to grief, to ecstasy,
And feel each varied change of soul
Obedient to the bard's control.
Ah, Clandeboy! thy friendly floor
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no
more;

Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze,
Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise !
The mantling brambles hide thy hearth,
Centre of hospitable mirth;
All undistinguish'd in the glade
My sires' glad home is prostrate laid,
Their vassals wander wide and far,
Serve foreign lords in distant war,

And now the stranger's sons enjoy The lovely woods of Clandeboy!' He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside, The starting tear to dry and hide.

XI.

Matilda's dark and soften'd eye Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry. Her hand upon his arm she laid, 'It is the will of Heaven,' she said. And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part From this loved home with lightsome heart,

Leaving to wild neglect whate'er
Even from my infancy was dear?
For in this calm domestic bound
Were all Matilda's pleasures found.
That hearth, my sire was wont to grace,
Full soon may be a stranger's place;
| This hall, in which a child I play'd,
Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid,
The bramble and the thorn may braid;
Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine,
It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line.
Yet is this consolation given,
My Redmond-'tis the will of Heaven.'
Her word, her action, and her phrase,
Were kindly as in early days;
For cold reserve had lost its power
In sorrow's sympathetic hour.
Young Redmond dared not trust his
voice;

But rather had it been his choice
To share that melancholy hour,
Than, arm'd with alla chieftain's power,
In full possession to enjoy
Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy.

XII.

The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek;
Matilda sees, and hastes to speak-
Happy in friendship's ready aid,
Let all my murmurs here be stay'd!
And Rokeby's maiden will not part
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
This night at least, for Rokeby's fame,
The hospitable hearth shall flame,