It chanced there answer'd of the crew,
A menial, who young Edmund knew:
"No son of Denzil this," he said;
"A peasant boy from Winston glade,
For song and minstrelsy renown'd,
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round."-
"Not Denzil's son !-From Winston vale!--
Then it was false, that specious tale;
Or, worse-he hath despatch'd the youth
To show to Mortham's Lord its truth.
Fool that I was!-but 'tis too late ;-
This is the very turn of fate!-1
The tale, or true or false, relies
On Denzil's evidence!-He dies!-
Ho! Provost Marshall! instantly
Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree!
Allow him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!
Then let his gory head appal
Marauders from the Castle-wall.
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done,
With best despatch to Egliston.-
-Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight
Attend me at the Castle-gate.”—__

XXIV.

"Alas!" the old domestic said,
And shook his venerable head,
"Alas, my Lord! full ill to-day
May my young master brook the way!
The leech has spoke with grave alarm,
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm,
Of sorrow lurking at the heart,
That mars and lets his healing art."-
"Tush, tell not me!-Romantic boys
Pine themselves sick for airy toys,
I will find cure for Wilfrid soon;
Bid him for Egliston be boune,
And quick!-I hear the dull death-drum
Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come."
He paused with scornful smile, and then
Resumed his train of thought agen.
"Now comes my fortune's crisis near!
Entreaty boots not-instant fear,
Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride,
Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride.
But when she sees the scaffold placed,
With axe and block and headsman graced,
And when she deems, that to deny
Dooms Redmond and her sire to die,
She must give way.-Then, were the line
Of Rokeby once combined with mine,

I gain the weather-gage of fate!
If Mortham come, he comes too late,
While I, allied thus and prepared,
Bid him defiance to his beard.-
-If she prove stubborn, shall I dare
To drop the axe?-Soft! pause we there.
Mortham still lives-yon youth may tell
His tale-and Fairfax loves him well;—
Else, wherefore should I now delay

To sweep this Redmond from my way?—
But she to piety perforce

Must yield. Without there! Sound to horse."

XXV.

'Twas bustle in the court below,

"Mount, and march forward!"-Forth they go; Steeds neigh and trample all around,

Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets sound.-
Just then was sung his parting hymn;
And Denzil turn'd his eyeballs dim,
And, scarcely conscious what he sees,
Follows the horsemen down the Tees;2
And scarcely conscious what he hears,
The trumpets tingle in his ears.

O'er the long bridge they're sweeping now,

The van is hid by greenwood bough;
But ere the rearward had pass'd o'er,

Guy Denzil heard and saw no more! a
One stroke, upon the Castle bell,
To Oswald rung his dying knell.

XXVI.

O, for that pencil, erst profuse
Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues,
That traced of old, in Woodstock bower,
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower,
And bodied forth the tourney high,
Held for the hand of Emily!
Then might I paint the tumult broad,
That to the crowded abbey flow'd,
And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound,
Into the church's ample bound!
Then might I show each varying mien,
Exulting, woeful, or serene;
Indifference, with his idiot stare,
And Sympathy, with anxious air,
Paint the dejected Cavalier,
Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer;
And his proud foe, whose formal eye
Claim'd conquest now and mastery;
And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel,

1 MS.-"This is the crisis of my fate."

throughout the story. No character, and, comparatively speaking, but little description, is introduced that is unessential to the narrative; it proceeds clearly, if not rapidly, throughout; and although the plot becomes additionally involved to appearance as it advances, all is satisfactorily explained at the last, or rather explains itself by gradual un

to

And loudest shouts when lowest lie
Exalted worth and station high.
Yet what may such a wish avail!
'Tis mine to tell an onward tale,'
Hurrying, as best I can, along,
The hearers and the hasty song;-
Like traveller when approaching home,
Who sees the shades of evening come,
And must not now his course delay,
Or choose the fair, but winding way;
Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend,
Where o'er his head the wildings bend,
To bless the breeze that cools his brow,
Or snatch a blossom from the bough.

XXVII.

The reverend pile lay wild and waste,
Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced.
Through storied lattices no more
In soften'd light the sunbeams pour,
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich
Of shrine, and monument, and niche.
The Civil fury of the time

Made sport of sacrilegious crime; 2
For dark Fanaticism rent
Altar, and screen, and ornament,
And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh.3
And now was seen, unwonted sight,
In holy walls a scaffold dight!
Where once the priest, of grace divine
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign;

There stood the block display'd, and there
The headsman grim his hatchet bare;
And for the word of Hope and Faith,
Resounded loud a doom of death.
Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was heard,
And echo'd thrice the herald's word,
Dooming, for breach of martial laws,
And treason to the Commons' cause,
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale
To stoop their heads to block and steel.
The trumpets flourish'd high and shrill,
Then was a silence dead and still;
And silent prayers to heaven were cast,
And stifled sobs were bursting fast,

The Quarterly Reviewer, after quoting from ""Tis mine to tell an onward tale,"

"Or snatch a blossom from the bough,"

adds, Assuredly, if such lines as these had occurred more frequently in Rokeby, it would have extorted our unqualified admiration; and although we lament that numerous little blemishes, which might easily be removed, have been suffered to remain; that many of the poetical ornaments, though justly conceived, are faintly and indistinctly drawn; and that those finishing touches, which Mr. Scott has the talent of placing with peculiar taste and propriety, are too sparingly scattered; we readily admit that he has told his onward tale' with great vigour and animation; and that he has gene

Till from the crowd begun to rise

Murmurs of sorrow or surprise,

And from the distant aisles there came

Deep-mutter'd threats, with Wycliffe's name.1

XXVIII.

But Oswald, guarded by his band,
Powerful in evil, waved his hand,
And bade Sedition's voice be dead,
On peril of the murmurer's head.

Then first his glance sought Rokeby's Knight;
Who gazed on the tremendous sight,

As calm as if he came a guest

6

To kindred Baron's feudal feast,
As calm as if that trumpet-call
Were summons to the banner'd hall;
Firm in his loyalty he stood,
And prompt to seal it with his blood.
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh,-
He durst not cope with Rokeby's eye!—7
And said, with low and faltering breath,
"Thou know'st the terms of life and death."
The Knight then turn'd, and sternly smiled;
"The maiden is mine only child,

Yet shall my blessing leave her head,
If with a traitor's son she wed."
Then Redmond spoke: "The life of one
Might thy malignity atone,

On me be flung a double guilt!
Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt!"
Wycliffe had listen'd to his suit,
But dread prevail'd, and he was mute.

Then wrung her hands in agony,
And round her cast bewilder'd eye.
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now
On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow.
She veil'd her face, and, with a voice
Scarce audible,-" I make my choice!
Spare but their lives!--for aught beside,
Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide.
He once was generous !"-As she spoke,
Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke :—
"Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late?
Why upon Basil rest thy weight?-
Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand ?-
Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand;'
Thank her with raptures, simple boy!

Should tears and trembling speak thy joy?"

"O hush, my sire! To prayer and tear
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear;
But now the awful hour draws on,
When truth must speak in loftier tone.”

XXX.

He took Matilda's hand: "Dear maid,
Couldst thou so injure me," he said,
"Of thy poor friend so basely deem,

As blend with him this barbarous scheme?
Alas! my efforts made in vain,
Might well have saved this added pain.3
But now, bear witness earth and heaven,
That ne'er was hope to mortal given,
So twisted with the strings of life,
As this to call Matilda wife!

I bid it now for ever part,

And with the effort bursts my heart!"
His feeble frame was worn so low,
With wounds, with watching, and with woe,
That nature could no more sustain
The agony of mental pain.

He kneel'd-his lip her hand had press'd,-5
Just then he felt the stern arrest.

Lower and lower sunk his head,-
They raised him, but the life was fled!
Then, first alarm'd, his sire and train
Tried every aid, but tried in vain.
The soul, too soft its ills to bear,
Had left our mortal hemisphere,
And sought in better world the mead,
To blameless life by Heaven decreed."

XXXI.

The wretched sire beheld, aghast,
With Wilfrid all his projects past,
All turn'd and centred on his son,
On Wilfrid all-and he was gone.
"And I am childless now," he said;
"Childless, through that relentless maid!
A lifetime's arts, in vain essay'd,
Are bursting on their artist's head!-
Here lies my Wilfrid dead-and there
Comes hated Mortham for his heir,
Eager to knit in happy band
With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand.
And shall their triumph soar o'er all
The schemes deep-laid to work their fall?
No!-deeds, which prudence might not dare,
Appal not vengeance and despair.
The murd❜ress weeps upon his bier-
I'll change to real that feigned tear!
They all shall share destruction's shock ;-
Ho! lead the captives to the block!"-
But ill his Provost could divine
His feelings, and forbore the sign.
"Slave! to the block !-or I, or they,
Shall face the judgment-seat this day!”

XXXII.

The outmost crowd have heard a sound, Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground; Nearer it came, and yet more near,The very death's-men paused to hear.

In place of this and preceding couplet, the MS. has, "Successful was the scheme he plann'd ; 'Kneel, Wilfrid ! take her yielded hand!'"

2 MS." He kneel'd, and took her hand."

3 MS.-"To save the complicated pain."

4 MS.-"Blended."

5 MS.-"His lips upon her hands were press'd,Just as he felt the stern arrest."

6 "The character of Wilfrid is as extensively drawn, and even more so, perhaps, than that of Bertram. And amidst the fine and beautiful moral reflections accompanying it, a deep insight into the human heart is discernible:-we had almost said an intuition more penetrating than even his, to whom were given these 'golden keys' that 'unlock the gates of joy.'

'Of horror that and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'" British Critic. "In delineating the actors of this dramatic tale, we have Little hesitation in saying, that Mr. Scott has been more suc

cessful than on any former occasion. Wilfrid, a person of the first importance in the whole management of the plot, exhibits an assemblage of qualities not unfrequently combined in real life, but, so far as we can recollect, never before represented in poetry. It is, indeed, a character which required to be touched with great art and delicacy. The reader generally expects to find beauty of form, strength, grace, and agility, united with powerful passions, in the prominent figures of romance; because these visible qualities are the most frequent themes of panegyric, and usually the best passports to admiration. The absence of them is supposed to throw an air of ridicule on the pretensions of a candidate for love or glory. An ordinary poet, therefore, would have despaired of awakening our sympathy in favour of that lofty and generous spirit, and keen sensibility, which at once animate and consume the frail and sickly frame of Wilfrid; yet Wilfrid is, in fact, extremely interesting; and his death, though obviousl▾ necessary to the condign punishment of Oswald, to the future repose of Matilda, and consequently to the consummation of the poem, leaves strong emotions of pity and regret in the mind of the reader."-Quarterly Review.

"Tis in the churchyard now-the tread Hath waked the dwelling of the dead! Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, Return the tramp in varied tone.

All eyes upon the gateway hung,

When through the Gothic arch there sprung
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed-
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed.
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd,
The vaults unwonted clang return'd!—
One instant's glance around he threw,
From saddlebow his pistol drew.
Grimly determined was his look!
His charger with the spurs he strook-
All scatter'd backward as he came,
For all knew Bertram Risingham!
Three bounds that noble courser gave; 2
The first has reach'd the central nave,
The second clear'd the chancel wide,
The third-he was at Wycliffe's side.
Full levell'd at the Baron's head,
Rung the report-the bullet sped-
And to his long account, and last,
Without a groan dark Oswald past!
All was so quick, that it might seem
A flash of lightning, or a dream.

XXXIII.

While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels;
But flounder'd on the pavement-floor
The steed, and down the rider bore,
And, bursting in the headlong sway,
The faithless saddle-girths gave way.
"Twas while he toil'd him to be freed,
And with the rein to raise the steed,
That from amazement's iron trance
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once.
Sword, halberd, musket-but, their blows
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ;
A score of pikes, with each a wound,

Bore down and pinn'd him to the ground; 3

But still his struggling force he rears,
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears,
Thrice from assailants shook him free,
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee.
By tenfold odds oppress'd at length,*
Despite his struggles and his strength,
He took a hundred mortal wounds,
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds;
And when he died, his parting groan
Had more of laughter than of moan !"
-They gazed, as when a lion dies,
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes,
But bend their weapons on the slain,
Lest the grim king should rouse again !7
Then blow and insult some renew'd,
And from the trunk, the head had hew'd,
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; 8

A mantle o'er the corse he laid :-
"Fell as he was in act and mind,
He left no bolder heart behind:
Then give him, for a soldier meet,
A soldier's cloak for winding sheet." 9

XXXIV.

No more of death and dying pang,
No more of trump and bugle clang,
Though through the sounding woods there come
Banner and bugle, trump and drum.
Arm'd with such powers as well had freed
Young Redmond at his utmost need,
And back'd with such a band of horse,
As might less ample powers enforce;
Possess'd of every proof and sign
That gave an heir to Mortham's line,
And yielded to a father's arms
An image of his Edith's charms,-
Mortham is come, to hear and see
Of this strange morn the history.
What saw he?-not the church's floor,
Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with gore;
What heard he ?-not the clamorous crowd,
That shout their gratulations loud:

MS." Had more of laugh in it than moan."

7 MS." But held their weapons ready set,

Lest the grim king should rouse him yet."

8 MS." But Basil check'd them with disdain, And flung a mantle o'er the slain."

9 "Whether we see him scaling the cliffs in desperate course, and scaring the hawks and the ravens from their nests; or, while the Castle is on fire, breaking from the central mass of smoke; or, amidst the terrific circumstances of his death, when his

'parting groan

Had more of laughter than of moan,'

we mark his race of terror, with the poet, like the 'eve of tropic sun!'

'No pale gradations quench his ray No twilight dews his wrath allay; With disk like battle-target red,

He rushes to his burning bed;

Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,
Then sinks at once-and all is night!'"
British Critic.

"I hope you will like Bertram to the end; he is a Caravag gio sketch, which, I may acknowledge to you-but tell it not in Gath-I rather pique myself upon; and he is within the keeping of Nature, though critics will say to the contrary. It may be difficult to fancy that any one should take a sort of pleasure in bringing out such a character, but I suppose it is partly owing to bad reading, and ill-directed reading, when I was young."-SCOTT to Miss Baillie.-Life, vol. iv. p. 49.

Redmond he saw and heard alone,
Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, "My son! my son !"—__!

XXXV.

This chanced upon a summer morn,
When yellow waved the heavy corn:
But when brown August o'er the land
Call'd forth the reaper's busy band,
A gladsome sight the silvan road
From Egliston to Mortham show'd.
A while the hardy rustic leaves
The task to bind and pile the sheaves,
And maids their sickles fling aside,
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride,

And childhood's wondering group draws near,
And from the gleaner's hands the ear

1 MS.-Here the Author of Rokeby wrote, "End of Canto VI."

Stanza xxxv., added at the request of the printer and another friend, was accompanied by the following note to Mr. Ballantyne :

"DEAR JAMES,

"I send you this, out of deference to opinions so strongly expressed; but still retaining my own, that it spoils one effect without producing another.

"W. S."

2" Mr. Scott has now confined himself within much narrower limits, and, by descending to the sober annals of the seventeenth century, has renounced nearly all those ornaments of Gothic pageantry, which, in consequence of the taste with which he displayed them, had been tolerated, and even admired, by modern readers. He has subjected his style to a severer code of criticism. The language of the poet is often unconsciously referred to the date of the incidents which he relates; so that what is careless or idiomatic escapes censure, as a supposed anomaly of antique diction: and it is, perhaps, partly owing to this impression, that the phraseology of 'Marmion,' and of the Lady of the Lake,' has appeared to us to be no less faulty than that of the present poem.

"But, be this as it may, we confidently persist in thinking, that in this last experiment, Mr. Scott's popularity will be still farther confirmed; because we have found by experience, that, although during the first hasty inspection of the poem, undertaken for the gratification of our curiosity, some blemishes intruded themselves upon our notice, the merits of the story, and the minute shades of character displayed in the conduct of it, have been sufficient, during many succeeding perusals, to awaken our feelings, and to reanimate and sustain our attention.

"The original fiction from which the poem is derived, appears to us to be constructed with considerable ability; but it is on the felicity with which the poet has expanded and dramatized it; on the diversity of the characters; on the skill with which they are unfolded, and on the ingenuity with which every incident is rendered subservient to his final purpose, that we chiefly found our preference of this over his former productions. From the first canto to the last, nothing is superfluous. The arrival of a nocturnal visitor at Barnard Castle is announced with such solemnity, the previous terrors of Oswald, the arrogance and ferocity of Bertram, his abruptness and discourtesy of demeanour, are so minutely delineated, that the picture seems as if it had been introduced for the sole purpose of displaying the author's powers of description! yet it is from this visit that all the subsequent incidents naturally, and almost necessarily flow. Our curiosity is, at the very commencement of the poem, most powerfully excited;

Drops, while she folds them for a prayer
And blessing on the lovely pair.
"Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave
Her plighted troth to Redmond brave;
And Teesdale can remember yet
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt,
And, for their troubles, bade them prove
A lengthen'd life of peace and love

Time and Tide had thus their sway,
Yielding, like an April day,
Smiling noon for sullen morrow,
Years of joy for hours of sorrow ! 2

the principal actors in the scene exhibit themselves distinctly to our view, the development of the plot is perfectly continuous, and our attention is never interrupted, or suffered to relax."—Quarterly Review.

"This production of Mr. Scott altogether abounds in imagery and description less than either of its precursors, in pretty nearly the same proportion as it contains more of dramatic incident and character. Yet some of the pictures which it presents are highly wrought and vividly coloured; for example, the terribly animated narrative, in the fifth canto, of the battle within the hall, and the conflagration of the mansion of Rokeby.

"Several defects, of more or less importance, we noticed, or imagined that we noticed, as we read. It appears like presumption to accuse Mr. Scott of any failure in respect of costume-of the manners and character of the times which he describes yet the impression produced on our minds by the perusai, has certainly been, that we are thrown back in imagination to a period considerably antecedent to that which he intends to celebrate. The other faults, we remarked, consist principally in the too frequent recurrence of those which we have so often noticed on former occasions, and which are so incorporated with the poet's style, that it is now become as useless as it is painful, to repeat the censures which they have occasioned.

"We have been informed that Rokeby' has hitherto circulated less rapidly than has usually been the case with Mr. Scott's works. If the fact be so, we are inclined to attribute it solely to accidental circumstances; being persuaded that the defects of the poem are only common to it with all the productions of its author; that they are even less numerous than in most; and that its beauties, though of a different stamp, are more profusely scattered, and, upon the whole, of a higher order."-Critical Review.

"Such is Rokeby; and our readers must confess that it is a very interesting tale. Alone, it would stamp the author one of the most picturesque of English poets. Of the story, we need hardly say any thing farther. It is complicated without being confused, and so artfully suspended in its unravelment, as to produce a constantly increasing sensation of curiosity. Parts, indeed, of the catastrophe may at intervals be foreseen, but they are like the partial glimpses that we catch of a noble and well-shaded building, which does not break on us in all its proportion and in all its beauty, until we suddenly arrive in front. Of the characters, we have something to ob