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WILFRID on Bertram should attend, But loved the quiet joys that wake
His son should journey with his friend." By lonely stream and silent lake;

In Deepdale's solitude to lie,

Where all is cliff and copse and sky;
Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak,
And wreathed to savage smile his frown. Or lone Pendragon's mound to seek.
“ Wilfrid, or thou—'tis one to me, Such was his wont; and there his dream
Whichever bears the golden key. Soar'd on some wild fantastic theme,
Yet think not but I mark, and smile Of faithful love, or ceaseless spring,
To mark, thy poor and selfish wile ! Till Contemplation's wearied wing
If injury from me you fear,

The enthusiast could no more sustain, What, Oswald Wycliffe, shields thee And sad he sunk to earth again.

I've sprung from walls more high than

I've swam through deeper streams than He loved as many a lay can tell,

Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell;
Might I not stab thee ere one yell For his was minstrel's skill, he caught
Could rouse the distant sentinel ? The art unteachable, untaught;
Start not-it is not my design,

He loved-his soul did nature frame But, if it were, weak fence were thine ; For love, and fancy nursed the flame; And, trust me, that, in time of need, Vainly he loved-for seldom swain This hand hath done more desperate Of such soft mould is loved again ; deed.

Silent he loved-in every gaze
Go, haste and rouse thy slumbering son; Was passion, friendship in his phrase.
Time calls, and I must needs be gone." So mused his life away-till died

His brethren all, their father's pride.

Wilfrid is now the only heir
Nought of his sire's ungenerous part Of all his stratagems and care,
Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart;

And destined, darkling, to pursue
A heart too soft from early life

Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue.
To hold with fortune needful strife.
His sire, while yet a hardier race

Of numerous sons were Wycliffe's grace,
On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand, Wilfrid must love and woo the bright
For feeble heart and forceless hand; Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight.
But a fond mother's care and joy To love her was an easy hest,
Were centred in her sickly boy.

The secret empress of his breast; No touch of childhood's frolic mood To woo her was a harder task Show'd the elastic spring of blood ; To one that durst not hope or ask. Hour after hour he loved to pore

Yet all Matilda could, she gave On Shakspeare's rich and varied lore, In pity to her gentle slave; But turn’d from martial scenes and light, Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, From Falstaff's feast and Percy's fight, And praise, the poet's best reward ! To ponder Jacques' moral strain, She read the tales his taste approved, And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain ; And sung the lays he framed or loved ; And weep himself to soft repose Yet, loath to nurse the fatal flame O'er gentle Desdemona's woes.

Of hopeless love in friendship's name,

In kind caprice she oft withdrew xxv.

The favouring glance to friendship due, In youth he sought not pleasures found Then grieved to see her victim's pain, By youth in horse, and hawk, and hound, And gave the dangerous smiles again.

XXVIII. So did the suit of Wilfrid stand, When war's loud summons waked the

land. Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, The wo-foreboding peasant sees; In concert oft they braved of old The bordering Scot's incursion bold : Frowning defiance in their pride, Their vassals now and lords divide. From his fair hall on Greta banks, The Knight of Rokeby led his ranks, To aid the valiant northern Earls, Who drew the sword for royal Charles. Mortham, by marriage near allied, His sister had been Rokeby's bride, Though long before the civil fray, In peaceful grave the lady lay, — Philip of Mortham raised his band, And march'd at Fairfax's command; While Wycliffe, bound by many a train Of kindred art with wily Vane, Less prompt to brave the bloody field, Made Barnard's battlements his shield, Secured them with his Lunedale powers, And for the Commons held the towers.

XXIX. The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight Waits in his halls the event of fight; For England's war rever'd the claim Of every unprotected name, And spared, amid its fiercest rage, Childhood and womanhood and age. But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe, Must the dear privilege forego, By Greta's side, in evening grey, To steal upon Matilda's way, Striving, with fond hypocrisy, For careless step and vacant eye ; Calming each anxious look and glance, To give the meeting all to chance, Or framing as a fair excuse, The book, the pencil, or the muse ; Something to give, to sing, to say, Some modern tale, some ancient lay. Then, while the long'd-for minutes last Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! Recording each expression free, Of kind or careless courtesy, Each friendly look, each softer tone, As food for fancy when alone.

All this is o'er-but still, unseen,
Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green,
To watch Matilda's wonted round,
While springs his heart at every sound.
She comes !--'tis but a passing sight,
Yet serves to cheat his weary night;
She comes not-He will wait the hour,
When her lamp lightens in the tower ;
'Tis something yet, if, as she past,
Her shade is o'er the lattice cast.
“What is my life, my hope ?” he said ;
Alas! a transitory shade."

Thus wore his life, though reason strove
For mastery in vain with love,
Forcing upon his thoughts the sum
Of present woe and ills to come,
While still he turn'd impatient ear
From Truth's intrusive voice severe.
Gentle, indifferent, and subdued,
In all but this, unmoved he view'd
Each outward change of ill and good :
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild,
Was Fancy's spoil'd and wayward child;
In her bright car she bade him ride,
With one fair form to grace his side,
Or, in some wild and lone retreat,
Flung her high spells around his seat,
Bathed in her dews his languid head,
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread,
For him her opiates gave to flow,
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego,
And placed him in her circle, free
From every stern reality,
Till, to the Visionary, seem
Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream.

XXXI. Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hand the reins, Pity and woe! for such a mind Is soft, contemplative, and kind; And woe to those who train such youth, And spare to press the rights of truth, The mind to strengthen and anneal, While on the stithy glows the steel ! O teach him, while your lessons last, To judge the present by the past; Remind him of each wish pursued, How rich it glow'd with promised good; Remind him of each wish enjoy'd, How soon his hopes possession cloy'd !

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The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due ;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree !
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green-
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ;
But when you hear the passing-bell,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree.
Yes! twine for me the cypress-bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and loved my last !
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With panzies, rosemary, and rue, -
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree.

O'Neale observed the starting tear,
And spoke with kind and blithesome

cheer“No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day When mourns the land thy silent lay, Shall many a wreath be freely wove By hand of friendship and of love. I would not wish that rigid Fate Had doom'd thee to a captive's state, Whose hands are bound by honour's law, Who wears a sword he must not draw; But were it so, in minstrel pride The land together would we ride, On prancing steeds, like harpers old, Bound for the halls of barons bold, Each lover of the lyre we'd seek, From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw's


Survey wild Albin's mountain strand,
And roam green Erin's lovely land,
While thou the gentler souls should move,
With lay of pity and of love,
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain,
Would sing of war and warriors slain.
Old England's bards were vanquish'd

And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden,
And, silenced on Iernian shore,
M'Curtin's harp should charm no more!”
In lively mood he spoke, to wile
From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile.

xv. “But,” said Matilda, "ere thy name, Good Redmond, gain its destined fame, Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ? Bid all the household, too, attend, Each in his rank a humble friend; I know their faithful hearts will grieve, When their poor Mistress takes her leave; So let the horn and beaker flow To mitigate their parting woe.” The harper came ;--in youth's first prime Himself; in mode of olden time His garb was fashion'd, to express The ancient English minstrel's dress, A seemly gown of Kendal green, With gorget closed of silver sheen ; His harp in silken scarf was slung, And by his side an anlace hung. It seem'd some masquer's quaint array, For revel or for holiday.

XVI. He made obeisance with a free Yet studied air of courtesy. Each look and accent, framed to please, Seem'd to affect a playful ease ; His face was of thât doubtful kind, That wins the eye, but not the mind; Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss Of brow so young and smooth as this. His was the subtle look and sly, That, spying all, seems nought to spy; Round all the group his glances stole, Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole.

* Drummond of Hawthornden was in the zenith of his reputation as a poet during the Civil Wars. He died in 1649.

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What prospects, from his watch-tower

high, Gleam gradual on the warder's eye !Far sweeping to the east, he sees Down his deep woods the course of Tees, And tracks his wanderings by the steam Of summer vapours from the stream; And ere he paced his destined hour By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, These silver mists shall melt away, And dew the woods with glittering spray. Then in broad lustre shall be shown That mighty trench of living stone, And each huge trunk that, from the side, Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, Where Tees, full many a fathom low, Wears with his rage no common foe; For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, Condemn'd to mine a channell's way, O'er solid sheets of marble grey.

III. Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight; But many a tributary stream Each from its own dark dell shall gleam : Staindrop, who, from her silvan bowers, Salutes proud Raby's battled towers ; The rural brook of Egliston, And Balder, named from Odin's son ; And Greta, to whose banks ere long We lead the lovers of the song ; And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild, And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, And last and least, but loveliest still, Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd, Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ?

Who, wandering there, hath sought to

change Even for that vale so stern and strange, Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent, Through her green copse like spires are

sent? Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, Thy scenes and story to combine ! Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays, List to the deeds of other days; 'Mid Cartland's Crays thou show'st the

cave, The refuge of thy champion brave ;* Giving each rock its storied tale, Pouring a lay for every dale, Knitting, as with a moral band, Thy native legends with thy land, To lend each scene the interest high Which genius beams from Beauty's eye.

IV. Bertram awaited not the sight Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's

height, But from the towers, preventing day, With Wilfrid took his early way, While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, Still mingled in the silent dale. By Barnard's bridge of stately stone, The southern bank of Tees they won; Their winding path then eastward cast, And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd; Each on his own deep visions bent, Silent and sad they onward went. Well may you think that Bertram's mood, To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude; Well may you think bold Risingham Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame; And small the intercourse, I ween, Such uncongenial souls between.

v. Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way, Through Rokeby's park and chase that

lay, And, skirting high the valley's ridge, They cross'd by Greta's ancient bridge. Descending where her waters wind Free for a space and unconfined,

* Sir William Wallace is traditionally believed to have frequently taken shelter amid the secluded recesses of Cartland Crags, near Lanark.

Then paused amid the martial sound,
And look'd with well-feign'd fear

around ;-
None to this noble house belong,"
He said, “ that would a Minstrel wrong,
Whose fate has been through good and ill,
To love his Royal Master still ;

And, with your honour'd leave, would fain
Rejoice you with a loyal strain."
Then, as assured by sign and look,
The warlike tone again he took ;
And Harpool stopp d, and turn'd to !

A ditty of the Cavalier.


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While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed and away,
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doff'd the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear,
He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down, -.
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown !
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,
GoD strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There's Erin's high Ormond and Scotland's Montrose !
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier !
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

Even when the crisis of its fate * Alas !" Matilda said, “that strain,

To human eye seems desperate. Good Harper, now is heard in vain !

While Rokeby's Heir such power retains, The time has been, at such a sound,

Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains :When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round,

And, lend thy harp; I fain would try An hundred manly hearts would bound;

If my poor skill can aught supply, But now, the stirring verse we hear,

Ere yet I leave my fathers' hall, Like trump in dying soldier's ear!

To mourn the cause in which we fall." Listless and sad the notes we own,

XXII. The power to answer them is flown. Yet not without his meet applause The harper, with a downcast look, Be he that sings the rightful cause, And trembling hand, her bounty took.

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