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Roughen'd the brow, the temples bar'd,
And sable hairs with silver shar'd,
Yet left-what age alone could tame-
The lip of pride, the eye of flame;
The full-drawn lip that upward curld,
The eye, that seem'd to scorn the world.
That lip had terror never blench'd;
Ne'er in that eye hath tear-drop quench'd
The flash severe of swärthy glow,
That mock'd at pain, and knew not woe.
Inur'd to danger's direst form,
Tornade and earthquake, flood and storne;
Death had he séén by sudden blow,
By wasting plague, bý tortures slow,
By mine or breach, by steel or ball,
Knew all his shapes, and scorn'd them all
But yet, though BERTRAM's harden'd look
Unmoved could blood and danger brook,
Still worse than apathy had place
On his swart brow and callous face;
For evil passions, cherish'd long,
Had plough'd them with impression strong
All that gives gloss to sin, all gay
Light folly, past with youth away,
But rooted stood, in manhood's hour,
The weeds of vice without their flower,
And yet the soil in which they grew,
Had it been tam'd when life was new,
Had depth and vigour to bring forth
The hardier fruits of virtuous worth.
Not that, e'en then, his heart had known
The gentler feelings? kindly tone,
But lavish waste had been refin'd
To bounty in his chasten'd mind,
And lust of gold, that waste to feed,
Been lost in love of glory's meed,
And, frantic then no more, his prido
Had ta'en fair virtue for its guidc.
Even now, by conscience unrestrain'i, Clogg'd by gross vice, byi slaughter stain'd,
بعد برلمشيعيه جميعهميعهميععععه
Still knew his daring soul to soar,
And mastery o'er the mind he bore;
For meaner guilt, or heart less hard,
Quail'd beneath Bertram's bold regarch
And this felt Oswald, while in vain
He strove, by many a winding train,
To lure his sullen guest to show,
Unask'd, the news he long'd to know,
While on far other subject hung
His heart, than falter'd from his tongue,
Yet nought for that his guest did deiya
To note or spare his secret pain,
But still, in stern and stubborn sort,
Return'd him answer dark and short,
Or started from the theme, to range,
In loose digression wild and strange;
And forc'd the embarrass'd host to buy,
By query close, direct reply.
A while he gloz'd upon the cause
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws,
And Church Reform'd--but felt rebuke
Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look,
Then stammer'd" Has a field been fought
Has Bertram news of battle brought?
For sure a soldier, famed so far
In foreign fields for feats of war,
On eve of fight ne'er left the host,
Until the field were won and lost.".
“ Here, in your towers by circling Tecs,
You, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease;
Why deem it strange that others come
To share such safe and easy home,
From fields where danger, death and toil,
Are the reward of civil broil?".
“Nay, mock not, friend! since well we know
The near advances of the foe,
To mar our northern army's work,
Encamp'd before beleaguer'd York;
Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay,
And must have fought-how went the day?'
XII. u Wouldst hear the tale?On Marston heath Met, front to front, the ranks of death;
Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and now
Fir'd was each eye, and fush'd each brow;
On either side loud clamours ring,
• God and the Cause! — God and the King!'
Right English all, they rush'd to blows,
With nought to win, and all to lose.
I could have laughd_but lack'd the time
To see, in phrenesy sublime,
How the fierce zealots fought and bled,
For king or state, as humour led;
Some for a dream of public good,
Some for the church-tippet, gown and bood,
Draining their veins, in death to claim
A patriot's or a martyr's name
Led Bertram Risingham the hearts,
That counter'd there on adverse parts,
No superstitious fool had I
Sought El Dorados in the sky!
Chili had heard me through her states,
And Lima op'd her silver gates,
Rich Mexico I had march'd through,
And sack'd the splendours of Peru,
Till sunk Pizarro's daring name,
And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame.".
66 Still from the purpose wilt thou stray!
Good gentle friend, how went the day?*
u Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound,
And good where goblets dance the round,
Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till now,
With rugged Bertram's breast and brow.
But I resume. The battle's rage
Was like the strife which currents wage,
Where Orinoco, in his pride,
Rolls to the main no tribute tide,
But 'gainst broad ocean urges far
A rival sea of roaring war;
While, in ten thousand eddies driven,
The billows fling their foam to heaven,
And the pale pilot seeks in vain,
Where rolls the river, where the main.
Even thus upon the bloody field,
The eddying tides of conflict wheel'd
Ambiguous, till that heart of flarne,
Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came,
Hurling against our spears a line
Of gallants, fiery as their wine:
Then ours, though stubborn in their zeal,
In zeal's despite began to reel.
What wouldst thou more?-in tumult :tost,
Our laders fell, our ranks were lost.
A thousand men, who drew the sword
For both the Houses and the Word,
Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, and dowis,
To curb the crosier and the crown,
Now, stark and stiff, lie stretch'd in gore,
And ne'er shall rail at mitre more.
Thus far'd it, when I left the fight,
With the good Cause and Commons' right."
« Disastrous news!” dark Wycliffe said,
Assum'd despondence bent his head,
While troubld joy was in his eye,
The well-feign'd sorrow to belie.
_when needed most,
Told ye not that your chiefs were lost?
Complete the woful tale, and say,
Who tell upon that fatal day;
What leaders of repute and name
Bought by their death a deathless fame?
If such my direst foeman's doom,
My tears shall dew his honour'd tomb.
No answer?-Friend, of all our host,
Thou know'st whom I should hate the most
Whom thou too, once, wert wont to hate,
Yet leav'st me doubtful of his fate.”_
With look unmov'd," Of friend or foe.
Aught," answer'd Bertram,"wouldst thou know
Demand in simple terms and plain,
A soldier's answer shalt thou gain;
For question dark, or riddle high,
I have not judgment nor reply."
The wrath his art and fear suppressid,
Now blaz'd at once in Wycliffe's breasts
And brave, from man so meanly borny
Rous'd his hereditary scorn.
e"! hast thou paid thy bloody debt??
PHILIP OF MORTHAM, lives he yet?
False to thy patron or thine oath,
Traitrous or perjur'd, one or both,
Slave! hast thou kept thy promise plight,
To slay thy leader in the fight?"
Then from his seat the soldier sprung,
And Wycliffe's hand he strongly wrung;
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail,
Forc'd the red blood-drop from the nail-
“ A health!” he cried; and, ere he quaff'd,
Flung from him Wycliffe's hand, and laugh'd;
“Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy heart!
Now play'st thou well thy genuine parti
Worthy, but for thy craven fear,
Like me to roam a bucanier.
What reck'st thou of the Cause divine,
If Mortham's wealth and lands be thine?
What car’st thou for beleaguer'd York,
If this good hand have done its work?
Or what though Fairfax and his best
Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast,
If Philip Mortham with them lie,
Lending his life-blood to the dye?--
Sit, then! and as 'mid comrades free
Carousing after victory,
When tales are told of blood and fear,
That boys and women shrink to hear
From point to point I frankly tell
The deed of death as it befell.
When purpos’d vengeance I forego,
Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe;
And when an insult I forgive,
Then brand me as a slave, and livel.
Philip of Mortham is with those
Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes;
Or whom more sure revenge attends,
If number'd with ungrateful friends.
As was his wont, ere battle glow'd,
Along the marshall'd ranks he rode,
And wore his visor up the while.
I saw his melancholy smile,
When, full oppos'd in front, he knew
Where ROKEBY's kindred banner fler