Perish wealth, and pow'r, and pride!
Mortal boons by mortals given;
But let Constancy abide,-
Constancy's the gift of Heaven.
While thus Matilda's lay was heard,
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr❜ð,
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody;
And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,
Claiming respect, yet waving state,
That marks the daughters of the great,
Yet not, perchance, had hese alone
His scheme of purpos'd guilt o'erthrown.
But while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combin'd,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty,-
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd
The very object he had dream'd;
When, long ere guilt his soul had known,
In Winston bow'rs he mus'd alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine
The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of princess fair, by cruel fate
Reft of her honours, pow'r, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restor'd
By destin'd hero's conquʼring sword.
"Such was my vision!" Edmund thought;
And have I, then, the ruin wrought
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision form'd her peer?
Was it my hand that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes?
Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith,
Their kindest mercy sudden death!
Have I done this? I! who have swore,
That if the globe such angel bore,
I would have trac'd its circle broad,
To kiss the ground on which she trodel---
And now-O! would that earth would ive, And close upon me while alive!
Is there no hope? Is all then lost?
Bertram's already on his post!
Ev'n now, beside the Hall's arch'd door,
I saw his shadow cross the floor!
He was to wait my signal strain
A little respite thus we gain:
By what I heard the menials say,
Young Wycliffe's troop are on their wayAlarm precipitates the crime!
My harp must wear away the time."
And then, in accents faint and low,
He falter'd forth a tale of woe.
"And whither would you lead me, then?" Quoth the Friar of orders grey;
And the Ruffians twain replied again,
By a dying woman to pray."
"I see," he said, a "lovely sight,
A sight bodes little harm,
A lady as a lily bright,
With an infant on her arm,'
"Then do thine office, Friar grey,
And see thou shrive her free!
Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night,
Fling all its guilt on thee.
"Let mass be said, and trentals read,
When thou'rt to convent gone,
And bid the bell of St Benedict
Toll out its deepest tone."
The shrift is done, the Friar is gone,
Blindfolded as he came
Next morning, all in Littlecot Hall
Were weeping for their dame.
Wild Darrell is an alter'd man,
The village crones can tell;
He looks pale as clay, and strives to pray,
If he hears the convent bell.
If prince or peer cross Darrell's way,
He'll beard him in his pride
If he meet a Friar of orders grey,
He droops and turns aside.
Harper! methinks thy magic lays,"
Matilda said, “can goblins raise!
Well nigh my fancy can discern,
Near the dark porch, a visage stern;
E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook,
I see it! Redmond, Wilfrid, look !---
A humau form distinct and clear-
God, for thy mercy!--It draws near!"
She saw too true. Stride after stride,
The centre of that chamber wide
Fierce Bertram gain'd; then made a stand,
And, proudly waving with his hand,
Thunder'd-"Be still, upon your lives!-
He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives."
Behind their chief, the robber crew
Forth from the darken'd portal drew,
In silence-save that echo dread
Return'd their heavy measur'd tread.
The lamp's uncertain lustre gave
Their arms to gleam, their plumes to waveș
File after file in order pass,
Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass.
Then, halting at their leader's sign,
At once they form'd and curv'd their line,
Hemming within its crescent drear
Their victims, like a herd of deer.
Another sign, and to the aim
Levell❜d at once their muskets came,
As waiting but their chieftain's word,
To make their fatal volley heard.
Back in a heap the menials drew;
Yet, ev'n in mortal terror, true,
Their pale and startled group oppose
Between Matilda and the foes.
O, haste thee, Wilfrid!" Redmond cried: Undo that wicket by thy side!
Bear hence Matilda-gain the wood-
The pass may be a while made good-
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh-
O speak not-dally not-but fly!"
While yet the crowd their motions hide,
Through the low wicket door they glide.
Through vaulted passages they wind,
In Gothic intricacy twin'd;
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore,
Matilda to the postern-door,
And safe beneath the forest tree,
The lady stands at liberty.
The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress,
Renew'd suspended consciousness;-
"Where's Redmond? eagerly she cries:
"Thou answer'st not-he dies! he diest:
And thou hast left him, all bereft
Of mortal aid with murd'rers left!
I know it well-he would not yield
His sword to man-his doom is seal'd!
For my scorn'd life, which thou hast bought
At price of his, I thank thee not.”
Th' unjust reproach, the angry look,
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook,
"Lady,” he said, "my band so near,
In safety thou mayst rest thee here.
For Redmond's death thou shalt not mouDD,
If mine can buy his safe return."
He turn'd away-his heart throbb'd high,
The tear was bursting from his eye;
The sense of her injustice press'd
Upon the Maid's distracted breast,—
Stay, Wilfrid, stay! all aid is vain!"
He heard, but turn'd him not again;
He reaches now the postern-door,
Now enters--and is seen no more.
With all the agony that e'er
Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and fear,
She watch'd the line of windows tall,
Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall,
Distinguish'd by the paly red
The lamps in dim reflection shed,
While all beside in wan moonlight
Each grated casement glimmer'd white.
No sight of harm, no sound of ill,
It is a deep and midnight still.
Who look'd upon the scene, had guess'd
All in the Castle were at rest:
When sudden on the windows shone
A light'ning flash, just scen and gone?
A shot is heard-Again the flame
Flash'd thick and fast-a volley came;
Then echo'd wildly, from within,
Of shout and scream the mingled din,
And weapon-clash and madd'ning cry,
Of those who kill, and those who diel-
As fill'd the Hall with sulph'rous smoke,
More red, more dark, the death-flash brokes
And forms were on the lattice cast,
That struck or struggled, as they past.
What sounds upon the midnight wind
Approach so rapidly behind?
It is, it is the tramp of steeds,
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds,
Seizes upon the leader's rein-
"O, haste to aid, ere aid be vain!
Fly to the postern-gain the Hall!”
From saddle spring the troopers all;
Their gallant steeds, at liberty,
Run wild along the moonlight lea.
But, ere they burst upon the scene,
Full stubborn had the conflict been.
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight,
It gave the signal for the fight;
And Rokeby's vet'rans, seam'd with scars
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars,
Their momentary panic o'er,
Stood to the arms which then they bore
(For they were weapon'd, and prepar'd
Their Mistress on her way to guard.)
Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale,
Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steci;
The war-smoke soon with sable breath
Darken'd the scene of blood and death,
While on the few defenders close
The Bandits, with redoubled blows,
And twice driv'n back, yet fierce and fell,
Renew the charge with frantic yell.
Wilfrid has fall'n-but o'er him stood
Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and blood, Cheering his mates with heart and hand
Still to make good their desp'rate stand.
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