X.

O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's shore,
Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's plain,
And front the flying thunders as they roar,

With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in vain !
And what avails thee that, for CAMERON slain,

Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was givenVengeance and grief gave mountain-rage the rein,

And, at the bloody spear-point headlong driven, Thy Despot's giant guards fled like the rack of heaven.

ΧΙ.

Go, baffled boaster! teach thy haughty mood
To plead at thine imperious master's throne;
Say, thou hast left his legions in their blood,
Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine own;
Say, that thine utmost skill and valour shown,
By British skill and valour were outvied;
Last say, thy conqueror was WELLINGTON!

And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried--
God and our cause to friend, the venture we'll abide.

XII.

But you, ye heroes of that well-fought day,
How shall a bard unknowing and unknown,
His meed to each victorious leader pay,
Or bind on every brow the laurels won?
Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone,
O'er the wide sea to hail CADOGAN brave?
And he, perchance, the minstrel-note might own,
Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune gave

'Mid yon far western isles that hear the Atlantic rave.

XIII.

Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword,
To give each Chief and every field its fame :
Hark! Albuera thunders BERESFORD !

And Red Barossa shouts for dauntless GRÆME!

O for a verse of tumult and of flame,

Bold as the bursting of their cannon sound,

To bid the world re-echo to their fame!

For never, upon gory battle-ground,

With conquest's well-bought wreath were braver victors crown'd!

XIV.

O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays,

Who brought a race regenerate to the field, Roused them to emulate their fathers' praise,

Temper'd their headlong rage, their courage steel'd,

And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield,

And gave new edge to Lusitania's sword,

And taught her sons forgotten arms to wield-
Shiver'd my harp, and burst its every chord,

If it forget thy worth, victorious BERESFORD!

XV.

Not on that bloody field of battle won,
Though Gaul's proud legions roll'd like mist away,
Was half his self-devoted valour shown,-

He gaged but life on that illustrious day;
But when he toil'd those squadrons to array,
Who fought like Britons in the bloody game,
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay,

He braved the shafts of censure and of shame, And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier's fame.

XVI.

Nor be his praise o'erpast who strove to hide Beneath the warrior's vest affection's wound, Whose wish Heaven for his country's weal denied; Danger and fate he sought, but glory found. From clime to clime, where'er war's trumpets sound, The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia! still Thine was his thought in march and tented ground; He dream'd 'mid Alpine cliffs of Athole's hill, And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's lovely rill.

XVII.

O hero of a race renown'd of old,

Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell, Since first distinguish'd in the onset bold,

Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell! By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's knell, Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber, own'd its fame, Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors tell,

But ne'er from prouder field arose the name, Than when wild Ronda learn'd the conquering shout of GRÆME!

XVIII.

But all too long, through seas unknown and dark,
(With Spenser's parable I close my tale),

By shoal and rock hath steer'd my venturous bark,
And landward now I drive before the gale.
And now the blue and distant shore I hail,
And nearer now I see the port expand,
And now I gladly furl my weary sail,

And as the prow light touches on the strand,
I strike my red-cross flag, and bind my skiff to land.

ROKEBY:

A Poem.

IN SIX CANTOS.

ΤΟ

JOHN B. S. MORRITT, Esq.

THIS POEM,

THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF ROKEBY,

IS INSCRIBED,

IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP,

BY

WALTER SCOTT.

DECEMBER 31, 1812.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to the adjacent Fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in that Vicinity.

The Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five Days, Three of which are supposed to elapse between the end of the Fifth and the beginning of the Sixth Canto.

The Date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marston Moor, 3d July 1644. This period of public confusion has been chosen, without any purpose of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Civil War, but only as affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious Narrative now presented to the Public.

ROKEBY.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

THE Moon is in her summer glow,
But hoarse and high the breezes blow,
And, racking o'er her face, the cloud
Varies the tincture of her shroud;
On Barnard's towers, and Tees's stream,
She changes as a guilty dream,

When Conscience, with remorse and fear,
Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career.
Her light seems now the blush of shame,
Seems now fierce anger's darker flame,
Shifting that shade, to come and go,
Like apprehension's hurried glow;
Then sorrow's livery dims the air,
And dies in darkness, like despair.
Such varied hues the warder sees
Reflected from the woodland Tees,
Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth,
Sees the clouds mustering in the north,
Hears, upon turret-roof and wall,
By fits the plashing rain-drop fall,
Lists to the breeze's boding sound,
And wraps his shaggy mantle round.

II.

Those towers, which in the changeful gleam
Throw murky shadows on the stream,
Those towers of Barnard hold a guest,
The emotions of whose troubled breast,
In wild and strange confusion driven,
Rival the flitting rack of heaven.
Ere sleep stern OSWALD'S senses tied,
Oft had he changed his weary side,
Composed his limbs, and vainly sought
By effort strong to banish thought.
Sleep came at length, but with a train
Of feelings true and fancies vain,
Mingling, in wild disorder cast,
The expected future with the past.
Conscience, anticipating time,
Already rues the enacted crime,