Even now I list my comrades' cheer,
That general laugh is in mine ear,

Which raised my pulse and steel'd my heart,
As I rehearsed my treacherous part--
And would that all since then could seem
The phantom of a fever's dream!
But fatal Memory notes too well
The horrors of the dying yell

From my despairing mates that broke,
When flash'd the fire and roll'd the smoke;
When the avengers shouting came,

And hemm'd us twixt the sword and flame!
My frantic flight, the lifted brand,-
That angel's interposing hand!-
If, for my life from slaughter freed,
I yet could pay some grateful meed !
Perchance this object of my quest
May aid"-he turn'd, nor spoke the rest.

VI.

Due northward from the rugged hearth,
With paces five he metes the earth,
Then toil'd with mattock to explore
The entrails of the cavern floor,

Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground,
His search a small steel casket found.
Just as he stoop'd to loose its nasp,
His shoulder felt a giant grasp;
He started, and look'd up aghast,

Then shriek'd!-'Twas Bertram held him fast.
"Fear not!" he said; but who could hear
That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?
"Fear not!--By heaven, he shakes as much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch :”—
He raised him, and unloosed his hold,
While from the opening casket roll'd
A chain and reliquaire of gold.1
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gazed on its fashion and device,
Then, cheering Edmund as he could,
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood:
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Quiver'd with terror's agony,
And sidelong glanced, as to explore,
In meditated flight, the door.

"Sit," Bertram said, " from danger free:
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not, flee.
Chance brings me hither; hill and plain
I've sought for refuge-place in vain.2
And tell me now, thou aguish boy,

What makest thou here? what means this toy?

Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were ta`en;
What lucky chance unbound your chain?

I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower,

Your heads were warp'd with sun and shower.
Tell me the whole-and, mark! nought e'er
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear."
Gathering his courage to his aid,
But trembling still, the youth obey'd.

VII.

"Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er
In fetters on the dungeon floor.

A guest the third sad morrow brought;
Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought,
And eyed my comrade long askance,
With fix'd and penetrating glance.

6 Guy Denzil art thou call'd?' The same."-
At Court who served wild Buckinghame;
Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place,
So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase;
That lost-I need not tell thee why-
Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply,
Then fought for Rokeby:-Have I guess'd
My prisoner right? At thy behest.-5
He paused a while, and then went on
With low and confidential tone;-
Me, as I judge, not then he saw,
Close nestled in my couch of straw.-
'List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great
Have frequent need of what they hate;
Hence, in their favour oft we see
Unscrupled, useful men like thee.
Were I disposed to bid thee live,
What pledge of faith hast thou to give?

VIII.

"The ready Fiend, who never yet Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit, Prompted his lie His only child

Should rest his pledge.'-The Baron smiled, And turn'd to me- Thou art his son?'

I bowed our fetters were undone,

And we were led to hear apart
A dreadful lesson of his art.
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son,
Had fair Matilda's favour won;
And long since had their union been,
But for her father's bigot spleen,
Whose brute and blindfold party-rage
Would, force per force, her hand engage
To a base kern of Irish earth,
Unknown his lineage and his birth,
Save that a dying ruffian bore
The infant brat to Rokeby door.
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed;

But fair occasion he must find

For such restraint well-meant and kind, The Knight being render'd to his charge But as a prisoner at large.

IX.

"He school'd us in a well-forged tale,
Of scheme the Castle walls to scale,1
To which was leagued each Cavalier
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear;
That Rokeby, his parole forgot,
Had dealt with us to aid the plot.
Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale
Proffer'd, as witness, to make good,
Even though the forfeit were their blood.
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er
His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore;
And then-alas! what needs there more?
I knew I should not live to say
The proffer I refused that day;
Ashamed to live, yet loth to die,
I soil'd me with their infamy!”—

"Poor youth," said Bertram, "wavering still, Unfit alike for good or ill!

But what fell next?"-" Soon as at large 3
Was seroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge,
There never yet, on tragic stage,
Was seen so well a painted rage
As Oswald's show'd! With loud alarm

He call'd his garrison to arm;

From tower to tower, from post to post,
He hurried as if all were lost;
Consign'd to dungeon and to chain
The good old Knight and all his train;
Warn'd each suspected Cavalier,
Within his limits, to appear
To-morrow, at the hour of noon,
In the high church of Egliston.”—

Which the grim headsman's scene display'd,
Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid.
Some evil deed will there be done,
Unless Matilda wed his son ;-
She loves him not-'tis shrewdly guess'd
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast.
This is a turn of Oswald's skill;

4

But I may meet, and foil him still!
How camest thou to thy freedom?"-" There
Lies mystery more dark and rare.

In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign'd rage,
A scroll was offer'd by a page,

Who told, a muffled horseman late
Had left it at the Castle-gate.

He broke the seal-his cheek show'd change,
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange;
The mimic passion of his eye

Was turn'd to actual agony;

His hand like summer sapling shook,
Terror and guilt were in his look.
Denzil he judged, in time of need,
Fit counsellor for evil deed;
And thus apart his counsel broke,
While with a ghastly smile he spoke:-

XI.

"As in the pageants of the stage,
The dead awake in this wild age,5
Mortham-whom all men deem'd decreed
In his own deadly snare to bleed,
Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea,
He train❜d to aid in murdering me,-
Mortham has 'scaped! The coward shot
The steed, but harm'd the rider not.”” 6
Here, with an execration fell,
Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell:-
"Thine own grey head, or bosom dark.”
He mutter'd, may be surer mark!"

66

Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale
With terror, to resume his tale.

"Wycliffe went on:- Mark with what

flights

Of wilder'd reverie he writes:

The Letter.

"Ruler of Mortham's destiny!

Though dead, thy victim lives to thee.7

Edmund, how cam'st thou free?"-" O there
Lies mystery," &c.

5 MS.-"The dead arise in this wild age,

Mortham-whom righteous heaven decreed
Caught in his own fell snare to bleed."

6 Mortham escaped-the coward shot
The horse-but harm'd the rider not,

is truly laughable. How like the dénouement of the Covent Garden Tragedy! in which the hero is supposed to have been killed, but thus accounts for his escape,

'I through the coat was, not the body, run!"

Monthly Review.

MS." Though dead to all, he lives to thee."

Once had he all that binds to life,
A lovely child, a lovelier wife;

Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his own-
Thou gavest the word, and they are flown. '
Mark how he pays thee:-To thy hand
He yields his honours and his land,2
One boon premised;-Restore his child!
And, from his native land exiled,
Mortham no more returns to claim
His lands, his honours, or his name;
Refuse him this, and from the slain
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.'-

XII.

"This billet while the baron read,

His faltering accents show'd his dread; He press'd his forehead with his palm, Then took a scornful tone and calm;

Wild as the winds, as billows wild! What wot I of his spouse or child? Hither he brought a joyous dame, Unknown her lineage or her name: Her, in some frantic fit, he slew; The nurse and child in fear withdrew. Heaven be my witness! wist I where To find this youth, my kinsman's heir,-Unguerdon'd, I would give with joy The father's arms to fold his boy, And Mortham's lands and towers resign To the just heirs of Mortham's line.'Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer;-Then happy is thy vassal's part,' He said, to ease his patron's heart! In thine own jailer's watchful care Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir; Thy generous wish is fully won,Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son.'

XIII.

"Up starting with a frenzied look,
His clenched hand the Baron shook:
Is Hell at work? or dost thou rave,
Or darest thou palter with me, slave!
Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's towers
Have racks, of strange and ghastly powers.'
Denzil, who well his safety knew,

Firmly rejoin'd, I tell thee true.
Thy racks could give thee but to know
The proofs, which I, untortured, show.-
It chanced upon a winter night,
When early snow made Stanmore white,
That very night, when first of all
Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby-hall,

1 MS." Wealth, fame, and happiness, his own-Thou gavest the word, and all is flown."

2 The MS. adds:--
"Nay more, ere one day's course had run,
He rescued twice from death thy son.
Mark his demand.-Restore his child!"

It was my goodly lot to gain

A reliquary and a chain,
Twisted and chased of massive gold.
-Demand not how the prize I hold!
It was not given, nor lent, nor sold.-
Gilt tablets to the chain were hung,
With letters in the Irish tongue.

I hid my spoil, for there was need
That I should leave the land with speed;
Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear

On mine own person gems so rare.
Small heed I of the tablets took,
But since have spell'd them by the book,
When some sojourn in Erin's land
Of their wild speech had given command.
But darkling was the sense; the phrase
And language those of other days,
Involved of purpose, as to foil

An interloper's prying toli.

The words, but not the sense, I knew,

Till fortune gave the guiding clew.

XIV.

"Three days since, was that clew reveal'd, In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd,3

And heard at full when Rokeby's Maid
Her uncle's history display'd;
And now I can interpret well
Each syllable the tablets tell.
Mark, then: Fair Edith was the joy
Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy;
But from her sire and country fled,
In secret Mortham's Lord to wed.
O'Neale, his first resentment o'er,
Despatch'd his son to Greta's shore,
Enjoining he should make him known
(Until his farther will were shown)
To Edith, but to her alone.

What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell,
Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so well.

And wrested from the old man's hands
His native towers, his father's lands.
Unable then, amid the strife,

To guard young Redmond's rights or life,
Late and reluctant he restores

The infant to his native shores,
With goodly gifts and letters stored,
With many a deep conjuring word,
To Mortham and to Rokeby's Lord.
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth,
Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth;

But deem'd his Chief's commands were laid

On both, by both to be obey'd.1

How he was wounded by the way,

I need not, and I list not say.'

XVI.

"A wondrous tale! and, grant it true,
What,' Wycliffe answer'd, might I do?
Heaven knows, as willingly as now
I raise the bonnet from my brow,
Would I my kinsman's manors fair 2
Restore to Mortham, or his heir;
But Mortham is distraught-O'Neale
Has drawn for tyranny his steel,
Malignant to our rightful cause,
And train'd in Rome's delusive laws.
Hark thee apart!'-They whisper'd long,
Till Denzil's voice grew bold and strong:-
My proofs! I never will,' he said,
"Show mortal man where they are laid.
Nor hope discovery to foreclose,
By giving me to feed the crows;
For I have mates at large, who know
Where I am wont such toys to stow.
Free me from peril and from band,
These tablets are at thy command;
Nor were it hard to form some train,
To wile old Mortham o'er the main.
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand

Should wrest from thine the goodly land.'—

I like thy wit,' said Wycliffe, 'well; But here in hostage shalt thou dwell. Thy son, unless my purpose err, May prove the trustier messenger. A scroll to Mortham shall he bear From me, and fetch these tokens rare. Gold shalt thou have, and that good store, And freedom, his commission o'er; But if his faith should chance to fail, The gibbet frees thee from the jail.’—

XVII.

"Mesh'd in the net himself had twined, What subterfuge could Denzil find?

1 The MS. has not this couplet.

MS.--"Would I my kinsman's lands resign

To Mortham's self and Mortham's line;

He told me, with reluctant sigh,
That hidden here the tokens lie ;3
Conjured my swift return and aid,
By all he scoff'd and disobey'd,*
And look'd as if the noose were tied,
And I the priest who left his side.
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave,
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave;
Or in the hut where chief he hides,
Where Thorsgill's forester resides.
(Thence chanced it, wandering in the glade,
That he descried our ambuscade.)

I was dismiss'd as evening fell,

And reach'd but now this rocky cell."-
"Give Oswald's letter."-Bertram read,
And tore it fiercely, shred by shred :-
"All lies and villany! to blind
His noble kinsman's generous mind,
And train him on from day to day,
Till he can take his life away.-
And now, declare thy purpose, youth,
Nor dare to answer, save the truth;
If aught I mark of Denzil's art,
I'll tear the secret from thy heart!”-

XVIII.

"It needs not. I renounce," he said,
"My tutor and his deadly trade.
Fix'd was my purpose to declare
To Mortham, Redmond is his heir;
To tell him in what risk he stands,
And yield these tokens to his hands.
Fix'd was my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done;

And fix'd it rests--if I survive

This night, and leave this cave alive.”—
"And Denzil?"-" Let them ply the rack,
Even till his joints and sinews crack!
If Oswald tear him limb from limb,
What ruth can Denzil claim from him,
Whose thoughtless youth he led astray,
And damn'd to this unhallow'd way?
He school'd me faith and vows were vain;
Now let my master reap his gain.”—
"True," answer'd Bertram, "'tis his meed;

There's retribution in the deed.
But thou-thou art not for our course,
Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse:
And he, with us the gale who braves,
Must heave such cargo to the waves,
Or lag with overloaded prore,

While barks unburden'd reach the shore."

XIX.

He paused, and, stretching him at length, Seem'd to repose his bulky strength.

But Mortham raves-and this O'Neale
Has drawn," &c.

3 MS.-"In secret where the tokens lie.”

4 MS." By ties he scoff d," &c.

Communing with his secret mind,
As half he sat, and half reclined,
One ample hand his forehead press'd,
And one was dropp'd across his breast.
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came
Above his eyes of swarthy flame;
His lip of pride a while forbore

The haughty curve till then it wore;
The unalter'd fierceness of his look
A shade of darken'd sadness took,-1
For dark and sad a presage press'd
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast,—
And when he spoke, his wonted tone,
So fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone.
His voice was steady, low, and deep,
Like distant waves when breezes sleep;
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear,
Its low unbroken depth to hear.

XX.

"Edmund, in thy sad tale I find
The woe that warp'd my patron's mind:
"Twould wake the fountains of the eye
In other men, but mine are dry.
Mortham must never see the fool,
That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool;
Yet less from thirst of sordid gain,
Than to avenge supposed disdain.
Say, Bertram rues his fault;-a word,
Till now, from Bertram never heard:
Say, too, that Mortham's Lord he prays
To think but on their former days;
On Quariana's beach and rock,
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock,
On Darien's sands and deadly dew,
And on the dart Tlatzeca threw ;-
Perchance my patron yet may hear
More that may grace his comrade's bier."
My soul hath felt a secret weight,
A warning of approaching fate:

But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town,
Held champion meet to take it down.
My noontide, India may declare;
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air!
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly
Her natives, from mine angry eye.
Panama's maids shall long look pale
When Risingham inspires the tale;
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame
The froward child with Bertram's name.
And now, my race of terror run,
Mine be 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.-

XXII.

"Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly,
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie
To Richmond, where his troops are laid,
And lead his force to Redmond's aid.
Say, till he reaches Egliston,

A friend will watch to guard his son.5
Now, fare-thee-well; for night draws on,
And I would rest me here alone."
Despite his ill-dissembled fear,
There swam in Edmund's eye a tear;
A tribute to the courage high,
Which stoop'd not in extremity,
But strove, irregularly great,
To triumph o'er approaching fate!
Bertram beheld the dewdrop start,
It almost touch'd his iron heart :--
"I did not think there lived," he said,
"One, who would tear for Bertram shed."
He loosen'd then his baldric's hold,
A buckle broad of massive gold;-
"Of all the spoil that paid his pains,
But this with Risingham remains;
And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take,
And wear it long for Bertram's sake.
Once more to Mortham speed amain;
Farewell! and turn thee not again."

XXIII.

The night has yielded to the morn, And far the hours of prime are worn. Oswald, who, since the dawn of day, Had cursed his messenger's delay, Impatient question'd now his train, "Was Denzil's son return'd again?"

4 See Appendix, Note 3 I.

5 MS." With him and Fairfax for his friend, No risk that Wycliffe dares contend. Tell him the while, at Egliston There will be one to guard his son."