Shouted like huntsman to his hounds,
"To cover, hark!”—and in he bounds.
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry,
Suspicion!-yes-pursue him-fly-
But venture not, in useless strife,
On ruffian desperate of his life,
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead!
Five hundred nobles for his head!"

XXVIL

The horsemen gallop'd to make good
Each path that issued from the wood.
Loud from the thickets rung the shout
Of Redmond and his eager rout;
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire,
And envying Redmond's martial fire,
And emulous of fame.-But where
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir?
He, bound by honour, law, and faith,
Avenger of his kinsman's death?-
Leaning against the elmin tree,

With drooping head andslacken'd knee,

And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd hands,

In agony of soul he stands!

His downcast eye on earth is bent,

His soul to every sound is lent;

For in each shout that cleaves the air,

May ring descovery and dispair.

XXVIII

What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd
The morning sun on Mortham's glade?
All seems in giddy round to ride,
Like objects on a stormy tide,
Seen eddying by the moonlight dim,
Imperfectly to sink and swim.
What 'vail'd it, that the fair domain,
Its battled mansion, hill and plain,
On which the sun so brightly shone,
Envied so long, was now his own?
The lowest dungeon, in that hour,
Of Brackenbury's dismal tower,
Had been his choice, could such a doom
Have open'd Mortham's bloody tombj
Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear

To each surmise of hope or fear,

Murmured among the rustics round,
Who gathered at the 'larum sound;
He dar'd not turn his head away,
E'en to look up to heaven to pray,
On call on hell, in bitter mood,

For one sharp death-shot from the wood!

XXIX.

At length o'erpast that dreadful space,
Back straggling came the scatter'd chase;
Jaded and weary, horse and man,
Return'd the troopers, one by one,
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say,
All trace was lost of Bertram's way,
Though Redmond still, up Brignall wood,
The hopeless quest in vain pursued.—
O, fatal doom of human race!
What tyrant passions passions chase!
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone,
Av'rice and pride resume their throne;
The pang of instant terror by,
They dictate thus, their slave's reply:

XXX.

"Ay-let him range like hasty hound!
And if the grim wolf's lair be found,
Small is my care how goes the game
With Redmond, or with Risingham.
Nay, answer not, thou simple boy!
Thy fair Matilda, all so coy
To thee, is of another mood

To that bold youth of Erin's blood.
Thy ditties will she freely praise,
And pay thy pains with courtly phrase;
In a rough path will oft command-
Accept at least-thy friendly hand;
His she avoids, or, urg'd and pray'd,
Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid,
While conscious passion plainly speaks
In downcast look and blushing cheeks.
Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh,
And all her soul is in her eye;
Yet doubts she still to tender free

The wonted words of courtesy.

These are strong signs!-yet wherefore righ, And wipe, effeminate, thine eye?

Thine shall she be, if thou attend
The counsels of thy sire and friend.

XXXI.

“Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of light
Brought genuine news of Marston's fight.
Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide,
And conquest bless'd the rightful side;
Three thousand cavaliers lie dead,
Rupert and that bold Marquis fled;
Nobles and knights, so proud of late,
Must fine for freedom and estate.
Of these, committed to my charge,
Is Rokeby, prisoner at large;
Redmond, his page, arriv'd to say
He reaches Barnard's towers to-day.
Kight heavy shall his ransom be,
Unless that maid compound with thee!
Go to her now-be bold of cheer

While her soul floats 'twixt hope and feas

It is the very change of tide,

When best the female heart is tried--
Pride, prejudice, and modesty,

Are in the current swept to sea;

And the bold swain, who plies his oar,

May lightly row his bark to shore.”

THE hunting tribes of air and earth
Respect the brethren of their birth;
Nature, who loves the claim of kind,
Less cruel chase to each assign'd.
The falcon, pois'd on soaring wing,
Watches the wild-duck by the spring;
The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair
The greyhound presses on the hare;
The eagle pounces on the lamb;
The wolf devours the fleecy dam:
Ev'n tiger fell, and sullen bear,
Their likeness and their lineage spares

Man, only, mars kind Nature's plan,
And turns the fierce pursuit on man;
Plying war's desultory trade,
Incursion, flight, and ambuscade,
Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son,
At first the bloody game begun.

II

The Indian, prowling for his prey,
Who hears the settlers track his way,
And knows in distant forest far
Camp his red brethren of the war;
He, when each double and disguise
To baffle the pursuit he tries,

Low crouching now his head to hide,

Where swampy streams through rushes glide,
Now covering with the wither'd leaves
The foot-prints that the dew receives;

He, skill'd in every silvan guile,

Knows not, nor tries, such various wile,
As Risingham, when on the wind
Arose the loud pursuit behind.
In Redesdale his youth had heard
Each art her wily dalesmen dar'd,
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high,
To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry,
Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear,
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear;
And well his venterous life had prov'd
The lessons that his childhood lov'd.

IIL

Oft had he shown, in climes afar,
Each attribute of roving war;
The sharpen'd ear, the piercing eye,
The quick resolve in danger nigh;
The speed, that in the flight or chase,
Outstripped the Charib's rapid race;
The steady brain, the sinewy limb,
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim;
The iron frame, inured to bear
Each (lire inclemency of air,
Nor less confirmed to undergo
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's three

These arts he prov'd, his life to save
In peril oft by land and wave,
On Arawaca's desert shore,

Or where La Plata's billows roar,
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain
Track'd the marauder's steps in vain,
These arts, in Indian warfare tried,
Must save him now by Greta's side.

IV.

'Twas then, in hour of utmost need,
He proved his courage, art, and speed.
Now slow he stalked with stealthy pace,
Now started forth in rapid race,

Oft doubling back in mazy train,

To blind the trace the dews retain;

Now clombe the rocks projecting high,

To baffle the pursuer's eye;

Now sought the stream, whose brawling sound

The echo of his footsteps drown'd.

But if the forest verge he nears,

There trample steeds, and glimmer spears:

If deeper down the copse he drew,

He heard the rangers' loud halloo,

Beating each cover while they came,

As if to start the silvan game.
"Twas then-like tiger close beset
At every pass with toil and net,
'Countered where'er he turns his glare,
By clashing arms and torches' flare,
Who meditates, with furious bound,
To burst on hunter, horse, and hound,-
'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose,
Prompting to rush upon his foes:
But as that crouching tiger, cowed
By brandished steel and shouting crowd,
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud,
Bertram suspends his purpose stern,
And crouches in the brake and fern,
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.

V.

Then Bertram might the bearing trace
Of the bold youth who led the chase;