Soon quench'd was bredde dir-lém de mivka Rather he would have seen the earth
Give to ten thousand spectres birth,
Then venture to awake to flame
The deadly wrath of Risingham.
Submiss he answer'd,-"Morthan's mind,
Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclin❜d.
In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free,
A lusty reveller was he;
But since return'd from over sea,
A sullen and a silent mood
Hath numb'd the current of his blood.
Hence he refus'd each kindly call
To Rokeby's hospitable hall,
And our stout knight, at dawn of morn
Who lov'd to hear the bugle-horn,
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd,
To see the ruddy cup go round,
Took umbrage that a friend so near
Refus'd to share his chase and cheer;
Thus did the kindred barons jar,
Ere they divided in the war.
Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair
Of Mortham's wealth is destin'd heir.".
"Destin'd to her! to yon slight maid!
The prize my life had well nigh paid,
When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave
I fought, my patron's wealth to save!→
Denzil, I knew him long, but neʼer
Knew him that joyous cavalier,
Whom youthful friends and early fame
Call'd soul of gallantry and game.
A moody man, he sought our crew,
Desp❜rate and dark, whom no one knew;
And rose, as men with us must rise,
By scorning life and all its ties.
On each adventure rash he rov'd,
As danger for itself he lov'd;
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine;
Ill was the omen if he smil❜d,
For 'twas in peril stern and wild;
But when he laugh'd, each luckless mate
Might hold our fortune desperate.
Foremost he fought in ev'ry broil,
Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil;
Nay, often strove to bar the way
Between his comrades and their prey;
Preaching, ev❜n then, to such as we,
Hot with our dear-bought victory,
Of mercy and humanity.
"I lov'd him well-His fearless part,
His gallant leading, won my heart.
And after each victorious fight,
"Twas I that wrangled for his right,
Redeem'd his portion of the prey
That greedier mates had torn away:
In field and storm thrice sav'd his life,
And once amid our comrades' strife.-
Yes, I have lov'd thee! Well hath prov❜d
My toil, my danger, how I lov'd!
Yet will I mourn no more thy fate,
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate.
Rise if thou canst!" he look'd around,
And sternly stamp'd upon the ground-
"Rise, with thy bearing proud and high,
Ev'n as this morn it met mine eye,
And give me, if thou dar'st, the lie!"
He paus'd-then, calm and passion-freed,
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed.
"Bertram, to thee I need not tell,
What thou hast cause to wot so well,
How Superstition's nets were twin'd
Around the Lord of Mortham's mind;
But since he drove thee from his tower,
A maid he found in Greta's bower,
Whose speech, like David's harp, had sway,
To charm his evil fiend away.
I know not if her features mov'd
Remembrance of the wife he lov'd;
But he would gaze upon her eye,
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh.
He, whom no living mortal sought
To question of his secret thought,
Now ev'ry thought and care confess'd
To his fair niece's faithful breast;
Nor was there aught of rich and rare,
In earth, in ocean, or in air,
But it must deck Matilda's hair.
Her love still bound him unto life;
But then awoke the civil strife,
And menials hore, by his commands,
Three coffers, with their iron bands,
From Mortham's vault, at midnight deep,
To her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep,
Pond'rous with gold and plate of pride
His gift, if he in battle died."-
“Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train,
These iron-banded chests to gain;
Else, wherefore should he hover here,
Where many a peril waits him near,
For all his feats of war and peace,
For plunder'd boors, and harts of grease?
Since through the hamlets as he far'd,
What hearth has Guy's marauding spar'd,
Or where the chase that hath not rung
With Denzil's bow, at midnight strung?"--
"I hold my wont-my rangers go
Ev'n now to track a milk-white doe.
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair,
In Greta wood she harbours fair,
And when my huntsman marks her way,
What think'st thoů, Bertram, of the prey?
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power,
We rate her ransom at her dower."
""Tis well!—there's vengeance in the thought, Matilda is by Wilfrid sought;
And hot-brain'd Redmond, too, 'tis said,
Pays lover's homage to the maid.
Bertram she scorn'd-If met by chance,
She turn'd from me her shudd'ring glance,
Like a nice dame, that will not brook
On what she hates and loathes to look;
She told to Mortham she could ne'er
Behold me without secret fear,
Foreboding evil:-She may rue
To find her prophecy fall true!—
The warhasweeded Rokeby's train,
Few foll'wers in his halls remain;
If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold,
We are enow to storm the hold;
Bear off the plunder, and the dame,
And leave the castle all in flame."
"Still art thou Valour's vent'rous son! Yet ponder first the risk to run:
The menials of the castle, true,
And stubborn to their charge, though few;
The wall to scale-the moat to cross-
The wicket-grate-the inner fosse"-
"Fool! if we blench for toys like these,
On what fair guerdon can we seize?
Our hardiest venture, to explore
Some wretched peasant's fenceless door,
And the best prize we bear away,
The earnings of his sordid day.
"A while thy hasty taunt for bear:
In sight of road more sure and fair,
Thou wouldst not choose, in blindfold wrath,
Or wantonness, a desp'rate path?
List then;-for vantage or assault,
From gilded vane to dungeon vault,
Each pass of Rokeby-house I know:
There is one postern, dark and low,
That issues at a secret spot,
By most neglected or forgot.
Now, could a spial of our train
On fair pretext admittance gain,
That sally-port might be un barr'd:
Then, vain were battlement and ward!”
"Now speak'st thou well:-to me the same
If force or art shall urge the game;
Indiff'rent, if like fox I wind,
Or spring like tiger on the hind.
But, hark! our merry men so gay
Troll forth another roundelay.'
"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid
And press the rue for wine!.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me you knew,
No more of me you knew.
"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again.
He turn'd his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, “Adieu for evermore,
"What youth is this, your band among,
The best for minstrelsy and song?
In his wild notes seem aptly met
A strain of pleasure and regret."-
"Edmond of Winstone is his name;
The hamlet sounded with the fame
Of early hopes his childhood gave.-
Now center'd all in Brignall cave!
I watch him well-his wayward course
Shows oft a tincture of remorse.
Some early love-shaft graz'd his heart,
And oft the scar will ache and smart.
Yet is he useful;-of the rest,
By fits, the darling and the jest,
His harp, his story, and his lay
Oft aid the idle hours away:
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate
Is ripe for mutinous debate.
He tuned his strings e'en now-again
He wakes them, with a blither strain.
XXX.
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.
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