The tinkling of a harp was heard. A manly voice of mellow swell, Bore burden to the music well.
"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!"
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.
"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;
If longer by the gate thou dwell,
Trust me, thou shalt not part so well.”
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 engage-
Your 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 !"-
1 MS." O, bid not me bear sword and shield, Or struggle to the bloody field, For gentler art this hand was made."
"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!
"Rokeby's lords of martial fame,
I can count them name by name ;3
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!"—
"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."
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 ?”—
"O, 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,
Enchanted by the master's lay,
Linger around the livelong day,
Shift from wild rage to wilder glee,
To love, to grief, to ecstasy,'
And feel each varied change of soul
Obedient to the bard's control.-
Ah, Clandeboy! thy friendly floor
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more;2
Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze,
Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise !
The mantling brambles hide thy hearth,
Centre of hospitable mirth;
All undistinguish'd in the glade,
My sires' glad home is prostrate laid,
Their vassals wander wide and far,
Serve foreign lords in distant war,
And now the stranger's sons enjoy
The lovely woods of Clandeboy!”
He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside,
The starting tear to dry and hide.
Matilda's dark and soften'd eye
Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry.
Her hand upon his arm she laid,—
It is the will of heaven," she said. "And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part From this loved home with lightsome heart, Leaving to wild neglect whate'er Even from my infancy was dear? For in this calm domestic bound Were all Matilda's pleasures found. That hearth, my sire was wont to grace, Full soon may be a stranger's place;3 This hall, in which a child I play'd, Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid, The bramble and the thorn may braid; Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine, It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line. Yet is this consolation given, My Redmond,-'tis the will of heaven." Her word, her action, and her phrase,
Were kindly as in early days;
For cold reserve had lost its power,
In sorrow's sympathetic hour.
Young Redmond dared not trust his voice;
1 MS." to sympathy." 2 See Appendix, Note 3 D. MS.-"That hearth, my father's honor'd place,
Full soon may see a stranger's face."
-Tanist's power."
Find for the needy room and fire,
And this poor wanderer, by the blaze."
"what think'st thou
Of yonder harp ?-Nay, clear thy brow." Marwood-chase is the old park extending along the Durham side of the Tees, attached to Barnard Castle, Toller Hill is an eminence on the Yorkshire side of the river, commanding a superb view of the ruins.
* MS.--" Where rose and lily I will twine
In guerdon of a song of thine."
But rather had it been his choice
To share that melancholy hour,
Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's power,'
In full possession to enjoy
Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy.
The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek;
Matilda sees, and hastes to speak.-
Happy in friendship's ready aid,
Let all my murmurs here be staid!
And Rokeby's Maiden will not part
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
This night at least, for Rokeby's fame.
The hospitable hearth shall flame,
And, ere its native heir retire,
Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
While this poor harper, by the blaze,
Recounts the tale of other days.
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed,
Admit him, and relieve each need.—
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try
Thy minstrel skill ?-Nay, no reply—“
And look not sad!-I guess thy thought,
Thy verse with laurels would be bought;
And poor Matilda, landless now,
Has not a garland for thy brow.
True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades,
Nor wander more in Greta shades;
But sure, no rigid jailer, thou
Wilt a short prison-walk allow,
Where summer flowers grow wild at will,
On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill;7
Then holly green and lily gay
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay."
The mournful youth, a space aside,
To tune Matilda's harp applied;
And then a low sad descant rung,
As prelude to the lay he sung.
The Cypress Wreath.' O, Lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree! Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
9"Mr. Scott has imparted a delicacy (we mean in the coloring, for the design we cannot approve), a sweetness and a melancholy smile to this parting picture, that really enchant us. Poor Wilfrid is sadly discomfited by the last instance of encouragement to Redmond; and Matilda endeavors to cheer him by requesting, in the prettiest, and yet in the most touching manner,Kind Wycliffe,' to try his minstrelsy. We will here just ask Mr. Scott, whether this would not be actual infernal and intolerable torture to a man who had any soul? Why, then, make his heroine even the unwilling cause of such misery? Matilda had talked of twining a wreath for her poet of holly green and lily gay, and he sings, broken-hearted, 'The Cypress Wreath.' We have, however, inserted this as one of the best of Mr. Scott's songs."—Monthly Review.
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,2
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.
"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.
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,2
Came as to bear her funeral pall.
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.
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.
My youth, with bold Ambition's mood,
Despised the humble stream and wood,
Where my poor father's cottage stood,
To fame unknown;-
1 MS.-"Nor could keen Redmond's aspect brook.'
MS.-"Came blindfold to the Castle-hall,
As if to bear her funeral pall."
"But the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him.
"And Saul said unto his servants, Provide me now a man that can play well, and bring him to me. And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took
What should my soaring views make good? My Harp alone!
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 lull'd 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:-"
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low? My Harp alone!
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!
"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
Then paused amid the martial sound, And look'd with well-feign'd fear around: "None to this noble house belong,"
an harp, and played with his hand: So Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him."-1 SAM UEL, chap. xvi. 14, 17, 23.
4 MS.-"Love came, with all his ardent fire,
His frantic dream, his wild desire."
MS." And doom'd at once to undergo,
Each varied outrage of the foe."
MS.-" And looking timidly around."
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.2
"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."
The harper, with a downcast look,
And trembling hand, her bounty took.—
As yet, the conscious pride of art
Had steel'd him in his treacherous part;
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd,
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?
Where God bless the brave gallants who fought for the Crown.'
3 MS." But now it sinks upon the ear, Like dirge beside a hero's bier." MS.-"Marking, with sportive cruelty,
The failing wing, the blood-shot eye." MS.-"The veteran chief, whose broken age, No more can lead the battle's rage."
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