The tinkling of a harp was heard. A manly voice of mellow swell, Bore burden to the music well.

Song. “Summer eve is gone and past, Summer dew is falling fast; I have wander'd all the day, Do not bid me farther stray! Gentle hearts, of gentle kin, Take the wandering harper in !"

IX.

Song resumed. “ I have song of war for knight, Lay of love for lady bright, Fairy tale to lull the heir, Goblin grim the maids to scare. Dark the night, and long till day, Do not bid me farther stray!

But the stern porter answer gave,
With “Get thee hence, thou strolling knave!
The king wants soldiers; war, I trow,
Were meeter trade for such as thou."
At this unkind reproof, again
Answer'd the ready Minstrel's strain.

“Rokeby's lords of martial fame,
I can count them name by name ;'
Legends of their line there be,
Known to few, but known to me;
If you honor Rokeby's kin,
Take the wandering harper in!
“Rokeby's lords had fair regard
For the harp, and for the bard;
Baron's race throve never well,
Where the curse of minstrel fell.
If you love that noble kin,
Take the weary harper in!"-

Song resumed. “ Bid not me, in battle-field, Buckler lift, or broadsword wield! All my strength and all my art Is to touch the gentle heart," With the wizard notes that ring Fom the peaceful minstrel-string."

The porter, all unmoved, replied, -
“Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide ;
Įf longer by the gate thou dwell,
Trust me, thou shalt not part so well.”

"Hark! Harpool parleys—there is hope,"
Said Redmond, “ that the gate will ope.”-
—“For all thy brag and boast, I trow,
Naught know'st thou of the Felon Sow,"
Quoth Harpool, “nor how Greta-side
She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide;
Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast
To Richmond's friars to make a feast.
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale
Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale,
That well could strike with sword amain,
And of the valiant son of Spain,
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph;
There were a jest to make us laugh!
If thou canst tell it, in yon shed
Thou'st won thy supper and thy bed."

VIII. With somewhat of appealing look, The harper's part young Wilfrid took: * These notes so wild and ready thrill, They show no vulgar,minstrel's skill; Hard were his task to seek a home More distant, since the night is come; And for his faith I dare engageYour Harpool's blood is sour'd by age; His gate, once readily display'd, To greet the friend, the poor to aid, Now even to me, though known of old, Did but reluctantly unfold.”— “O blame not, as poor Harpool's crime, An evil of this evil time. He deems dependent on his care The safety of his patron's heir, Nor judges meet to ope the tower To guest unknown at parting hour," Urging his duty to excess Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. For this poor harper, I would fain He may relax:-Hark to his strain !"

X. Matilda smiled; " Cold hope,” said she, “From Harpool's love of minstrelsy! But, for this harper, may we dare, Redmond, to mend his couch and fare ?"* 0, ask me not !-At minstrel-string My heart from infancy would spring; Nor can I hear its simplest strain, But it brings Erin's dream again, When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee, (The Filea of O'Neale was he, A blind and bearded man, whose eld Was sacred as a prophet's held,) I've seen a ring of rugged kerne, With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern,

The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree !

1

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
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.

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 Peak,
Survey wide 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 then,
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.

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 favor'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.

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.

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.

XIV. 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 honor's law,

XVI. He made obcisance 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 that 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.

Į So lost to hope as falls to me; But wert thou such,

What should my soaring views make good ?

My Harp alone!

His was the subtle look and sly,
That, spying all, seems naught to spy ;
Round all the group his glances stole,
Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole.
Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look,
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook.'
To the suspicious, or the old,
Subtle and dangerous and bold
Had seem'd this self-invited guest;
But young our lovers,—and the rest,
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear
At parting of their Mistress dear,
Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall,?
Came as to bear her funeral pall.

Love came with all his frantic fire,
And wild romance of vain desire :
The baron's daughter heard my lyre,

And praised the tone;What could presumptuous hope inspire !

My Harp alone!

At manhood's touch the bubble burst, And manhood's pride the vision curst, And all that had my folly nursed

Love's sway to own; Yet spared the spell that lulld me first,

My Harp alone!

Woe came with war, and want with woe;
And it was mine to undergo
Each outrage of the rebel foe:

Can aught atone
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low!

My Harp alone!

XVII. All that expression base was gone, When waked the guest his minstrel tone; It fled at inspiration's call, As erst the demon fled from Saul.' More noble glance he cast around, More free-drawn breath inspired the sound, His pulse beat bolder and more high, In all the pride of minstrelsy! Alas! too soon that pride was o'er, Sunk with the lay that bade it soar ! His soul resumed, with habit's chain, Its vices wild and follies vain, And gave the talent, with him born, To be a common curse and scorn. Such was the youth whom Rokeby's Maid, With condescending kindness, pray'd Here to renew the strains she loved, At distance heard and well approved.

Ambition's dreams I've seen depart, Have rued of penury the smart, Have felt of love the venom'd dart,

When hope was flown; Yet rests one solace to my heart,

My Harp alone!

Then over mountain, moor, and hill,
My faithful Harp, I'll bear thee still;
And when this life of want and ill

Is wellnigh gone,
Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill,

My Harp alone !

XVIII.

Song.

THE HARP.

I was a wild and wayward boy,
My childhood scorn'd each childish toy,
Retired from all, reserved and coy,

To musing prone,
I woo'd my solitary joy,

My Harp alone.

XIX. “A pleasing lay!" Matilda said ; But Harpool shook his old gray head, And took his baton and his torch, To seek his guard-room in the porch. Edmund observed; with sudden change, Among the strings his fingers range, Until they waked a bolder glee Of military melody; Then paused amid the martial sound, And look'd with well-feign'd fear around “None to this noble house belong,"

My youth, with bold Ambition’s mood, Despised the humble stream and wood, Where my poor father's cottage stood,

To fame unknown ;

Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her

Crown."

He said, “ that would a Minstrel wrong,
Whose fate has been, through good and ill,
To love his Royal Master still ;
And with your honor'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 hear
A ditty of the Cavalier.

XX.

Song.

THE CAVALIER. While the dawn on the mountainwas 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!

XXI. “ Alas!" Matilda said, " that strain, Good harper, now is heard in vain ! The time has been, at such a sound, When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round, An hundred manly hearts would bound; But now the stirring verse we hear, Like trump in dying soldier's ear! Listless and sad the notes we own, The power to answer them is flown. Yet not without his meet applause, Be he that sings the rightful cause, Even when the crisis of its fate To human eye seems desperate. While Rokeby's Heir such power retains, Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains And, lend thy harp; I fain would try, If my poor skill can aught supply, Ere yet I leave my fathers' hall, To mourn the cause in which we fall."

He has doff?d the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear,

[hair, He has placed his steel-cap o'er his long flowing From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,

[the Crown! Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he

draws, Her King is his leader, her Church is his Cause; His watchword is honor, 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,

[Crown! That the spears of the North have encircled the

XXII. The harper, with a downcast look, And trembling hand, her bounty took.As yet, the conscious pride of art Had steeld him in his treacherous part; A powerful spring, of force unguessid, That hath each gentler mood suppress’d, And reign'd in many a human breast; From his that plans the red campaign, To his that wastes the woodland reign. The failing wing, the blood-shot eye,– The sportsman marks with apathy, Each feeling of his victim's ill Drown'd in his own successful skill. The veteran, too, who now no more Aspires to head the battle's roar,“ Loves still the triumph of his art, And traces on the pencill'd chart Some stern invader's destined way, Through blood and ruin, to his prey; Patriots to death, and towns to flame, He dooms, to raise another's name, And shares the guilt, though not the fame. What pays him for his span of time Spent in premeditating crime?

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!

[and Brown, Would you

match the base Skippon, and Massey, 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,

Where God bless the brave gallants who fought