Yet twice have I beheld to-day

A Form, that seem'd to dog our way;
Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee,
And shroud itself by cliff or tree.
How think'st thou ?-Is our path way-laid?
Or hath thy sire my trust betray'd?
If so "Ere, starting from his dream,
That turn'd upon a gentler theme,
Wilfrid had roused him to reply,
Bertram sprung forward, shouting high,
"Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand !"--
And forth he darted, sword in hand.

XIV.

As bursts the levin in its wrath,'

He shot him down the sounding path;
Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out,
To his loud step and savage shout.2
Seems that the object of his race
Hath scaled the cliffs; his frantic chase
Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent
Right up the rock's tall battlement;
Straining each sinew to ascend,

Foot, hand, and knee, their aid must lend.
Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay,
Views from beneath, his dreadful way:
Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings,
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings;
Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare
An unsupported leap in air;3
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now,
You mark him by the crashing bough,
And by his corslet's sullen clank,

And by the stones spurn'd from the bank,
And by the hawk scared from her nest,
And ravens croaking o'er their guest,
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay
The tribute of his bold essay.

...

Sole stay his foot may rest upon,
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone.
Balanced on such precarious prop,"
He strains his grasp to reach the top.
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes,
By heaven, his faithless footstool shakes!
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends,
It sways,... it loosens, it descends!
And downward holds its headlong way,
Crashing o'er rock and copsewood spray.
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell!--
Fell it alone?-alone it fell.
Just on the very verge of fate,
The hardy Bertram's falling weight
He trusted to his sinewy hands,
And on the top unharm'd he stands !

XVI.

Wilfrid a safer path pursued;

At intervals where, roughly hew'd,
Rude steps ascending from the dell
Render'd the cliffs accessible.

By circuit slow he thus attain'd

The height that Risingham had gain'd,
And when he issued from the wood,
Before the gate of Mortham stood.7
"Twas a fair scene! the sunbeam lay
On battled tower and portal grey:
And from the grassy slope he sees
The Greta flow to meet the Tees;
Where, issuing from her darksome bed,
She caught the morning's eastern red,
And through the softening vale below
Roll'd her bright waves, in rosy glow,
All blushing to her bridal bed,8
Like some shy maid in convent bred;
While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay,
Sing forth her nuptial roundelay.

XVII.

"Twas sweetly sung that roundelay;
That summer morn shone blithe and gay;
But morning beam, and wild-bird's call,
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall.9
No porter, by the low-brow'd gate,
Took in the wonted niche his seat;

Just as the perilous stretch he makes,
By heaven, his tottering footstool shakes."

6 Opposite to this line, the MS. has this note, meant to amuse Mr. Ballantyne :-" If my readers will not allow that I have climbed Parnassus, they must grant that I have turned the Kittle Nine Steps."-[See note to Redgauntlet.-Waverley Novels, vol. xxxv. p. 6.]

7 See Appendix, Note U.

8 MS.-"As some fair maid in cloister bred, Is blushing to her bridal led."

9 "The beautiful prospect commanded by that eminence seen under the cheerful light of a summer's morning, is finely contrasted with the silence and solitude of the place."-Criti cal Review.

To the paved court no peasant drew;
Waked to their toil no menial crew;
The maiden's carol was not heard,
As to her morning task she fared:
In the void offices around,
Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound;
Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh,
Accused the lagging groom's delay;
Untrimm'd, undress'd, neglected now,
Was alley'd walk and orchard bough;
All spoke the master's absent care,1
All spoke neglect and disrepair.
South of the gate, an arrow flight,
Two mighty elms their limbs unite,
As if a canopy to spread

O'er the lone dwelling of the dead;
For their huge boughs in arches bent
Above a massive monument,
Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise,
With many a scutcheon and device:
There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom,
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb.

XVIII.

"It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost!
Behind this tomb," he said, " 'twas lost-
This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies stored
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard.
"Tis true, the aged servants said
Here his lamented wife is laid;2
But weightier reasons may be guess'd
For their lord's strict and stern behest,
That none should on his steps intrude,
Whene'er he sought this solitude.-
An ancient mariner I knew,

What time I sail'd with Morgan's crew,
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake
Of Raleigh, Forbisher, and Drake;
Adventurous hearts! who barter'd, bold,
Their English steel for Spanish gold.
Trust not, would his experience say,
Captain or comrade with your prey;
But seek some charnel, when, at full,
The moon gilds skeleton and skull:
There dig, and tomb your precious heap;
And bid the dead your treasure keep;3
Sure stewards they, if fitting spell
Their service to the task compel.
Lacks there such charnel?-kill a slave,
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave;
And bid his discontented ghost
Stalk nightly on his lonely post.-

Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, Is in my morning vision seen."

XIX.

Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild,
In mingled mirth and pity smiled,
Much marvelling that a breast so bold
In such fond tale belief should hold;"
But yet of Bertram sought to know
The apparition's form and show.
The power within the guilty breast,
Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd,
That unsubdued and lurking lies
To take the felon by surprise,
And force him, as by magic spell,

In his despite his guilt to tell,- 6
That power in Bertram's breast awoke;
Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke;
""Twas Mortham's form, from foot to head!
His morion, with the plume of red,

His shape, his mien-'twas Mortham, right
As when I slew him in the fight."-

"Thou slay him?—thou?"-With conscious start

He heard, then mann'd his haughty heart

"I slew him?-I!-I had forgot

Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot.
But it is spoken-nor will I

Deed done, or spoken word, deny.

I slew him; I! for thankless pride;
"Twas by this hand that Mortham died!"

XX.

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart,
Averse to every active part,
But most averse to martial broil,
From danger shrunk, and turn'd from toil;
Yet the meek lover of the lyre
Nursed one brave spark of noble fire,
Against injustice, fraud, or wrong,
His blood beat high, his hand wax'd strong.
Not his the nerves that could sustain,
Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain;
But, when that spark blazed forth to flame,7
He rose superior to his frame.

And now it came, that generous mood:
And, in full current of his blood,
On Bertram he laid desperate hand,
Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand.
"Should every fiend, to whom thour't sold,
Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold.-
Arouse there, ho! take spear and sword!
Attach the murderer of your Lord!"

And for the sharp rebuke they got,
That pried around his favourite spot."

3 See Appendix, Note V.

4 MS." Lacks there such charnel-vault?-a slave, Or prisoner, slaughter on the grave.”

5 MS.-" Should faith in such a fable hold."

6 See Appendix, Note W.

7 MS.-"But, when blazed forth that noble flame."

XXI.

A moment, fix'd as by a spell,
Stood Bertram-It seem'd miracle,
That one so feeble, soft, and tame
Set grasp on warlike Risingham.'
But when he felt a feeble stroke,2
The fiend within the ruffian woke!

To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand,
To dash him headlong on the sand,
Was but one moment's work,-one more
Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore;
But, in the instant it arose,

To end his life, his love, his woes,
A warlike form, that mark'd the scene,
Presents his rapier sheathed between,
Parries the fast-descending blow,
And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe;
Nor then unscabbarded his brand,
But, sternly pointing with his hand,
With monarch's voice forbade the fight,
And motion'd Bertram from his sight.
"Go, and repent,"-he said, "while time
Is given thee; add not crime to crime."

XXII.

Mute, and uncertain, and amazed,
As on a vision Bertram gazed!
'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high,3
His sinewy frame, his falcon
eye,

His look and accent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,
His war-bleach'd locks-'twas Mortham
all.

Through Bertram's dizzy brain career1
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear;
His wavering faith received not quite
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite,
But more he fear'd it, if it stood
His lord, in living flesh and blood.--
What spectre can the charnel send,
So dreadful as an injured friend?
Then, too, the habit of command,
Used by the leader of the band,
When Risingham, for many a day,

Had march'd and fought beneath his sway,
Tamed him—and, with reverted face,
Backwards he bore his sullen pace;

Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared,
And dark as rated mastiff glared;
But when the tramp of steeds was heard,
Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd ;-
Nor longer there the Warrior stood,
Retiring eastward through the wood;"
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,
"Tell thou to none that Mortham lives."

XXIII.

Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear,
Hinting he knew not what of fear;
When nearer came the coursers' tread,
And, with his father at their head,
Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power
Rein'd up their steeds before the tower.7
"Whence there pale looks, my son?" he said:
"Where's Bertram?-Why that naked blade?",
Wilfrid ambiguously replied,

(For Mortham's charge his honour tied,)
"Bertram is gone-the villain's word
Avouch'd him murderer of his lord!
Even now we fought-but, when your tread
Announced you nigh, the felon fled."
In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear
A guilty hope, a guilty fear;
On his pale brow the dewdrop broke,
And his lip quiver'd as he spoke:-

XXIV.

"A murderer!-Philip Mortham died
Amid the battle's wildest tide.
Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you!
Yet, grant such strange confession true,
Pursuit were vain-let him fly far-
Justice must sleep in civil war."
A gallant Youth rode near his side,
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried;
That morn, an embassy of weight
He brought to Barnard's castle gate,
And follow'd now in Wycliffe's train,
An answer for his lord to gain.
His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck,
Chafed not against the curb more high
Than he at Oswald's cold reply;
He bit his lip, implored his saint,
(His the old faith)-then burst restraint.

3 MS.-"Twas Mortham's spare and sinewy frame, His falcon eye, his glance of flame."

4 MS.-"A thousand thoughts, and all of fear,
Dizzied his brain in wild career;
Doubting, and not receiving quite,
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite,
Still more he fear'd it, if it stood

His living lord, in flesh and blood."

5 MS.-" Slow he retreats with sullen pace."

6 MS.-"Retiring through the thickest wood."

7 MS.-"Rein'd up their steeds by Mortham tower."

U