<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519665" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Rokeby: Canto II.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I. <br>Far in the chambers of the west, <br>The gale had sigh'd itself to rest; <br>The moon was cloudless now and clear, <br>But pale, and soon to disappear. <br>The thin grey clouds wax dimly light <br>On Brusleton and Houghton height; <br>And the rich dale, that eastward lay, <br>Waited the wakening touch of day, <br>To give its woods and cultured plain, <br>And towers and spires, to light again. <br>But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, <br>And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, <br>And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, <br>And Arkingarth, lay dark afar; <br>While, as a livelier twilight falls, <br>Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls <br>High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale, <br>The sovereign of the lovely vale. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II. <br>What prospects, from his watch-tower high, <br>Gleam gradual on the warder's eye! <br>Far sweeping to the east, he sees <br>Down his deep woods the course of Tees, <br>And tracks his wanderings by the steam <br>Of summer vapours from the stream; <br>And ere he pace his destined hour <br>By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, <br>These silver mists shall melt away, <br>And dew the woods with glittering spray. <br>Then in broad luster shall be shown <br>That mighty trench of living stone, <br>And each huge trunk that, from the side, <br>Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, <br>Where Tees, full many a fathom low, <br>Wears with his rage no common foe; <br>For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, <br>Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, <br>Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, <br>O'er solid sheets of marble gray. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III. <br>Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, <br>Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight; <br>But many a tributary stream <br>Each from its own dark dell shall gleam: <br>Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, <br>Salutes proud Raby's battled towers; <br>The rural brook of Egliston, <br>And Balder, named from Odin's son; <br>And Greta, to whose banks ere long <br>We lead the lovers of the song; <br>And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild, <br>And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, <br>And last and least, but loveliest still, <br>Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. <br>Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd, <br>Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade? <br>Who, wandering there, hath sought to change <br>Even for that vale so stern and strange, <br>Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent, <br>Through her green copse like spires are sent? <br>Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, <br>Thy scenes and story to combine! <br>Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays, <br>List to the deeds of other days; <br>Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the cave, <br>The refuge of thy champion brave; <br>Giving each rock its storied tale, <br>Pouring a lay for every dale, <br>Knitting, as with a moral band, <br>Thy native legends with thy land, <br>To lend each scene the interest high <br>Which genius beams from Beauty's eye. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV. <br>Bertram awaited not the sight <br>Which sunrise shows from Barnard's height, <br>But from the towers, preventing day, <br>With Wilfrid took his early way, <br>While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, <br>Still mingled in the silent dale. <br>By Barnard's bridge of stately stone, <br>The southern bank of Tees they won; <br>Their winding path then eastward cast, <br>And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd <br>Each on his own deep visions bent, <br>Silent and sad they onward went. <br>Well may you think that Bertram's mood, <br>To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude; <br>Well may you think bold Risingham <br>Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame; <br>And small the intercourse, I ween, <br>Such uncongenial souls between. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">V. <br>Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way, <br>Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay, <br>And, skirting high the valley's ridge, <br>They cross'd by Greta's ancient bridge. <br>Descending where her waters wind <br>Free for a space and unconfined, <br>As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark-wood glen, <br>She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. <br>There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound, <br>Raised by that Legion long renown'd, <br>Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, <br>Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, <br>'Stern sons of war!' sad Wilfrid sigh'd, <br>'Behold the boast of Roman pride! <br>What now of all your toils are known? <br>A grassy trench, a broken stone!' <br>This to himself; for moral strain <br>To Bertram were address'd in vain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI. <br>Of different mood, a deeper sigh <br>Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high <br>Were northward in the dawning seen <br>To rear them o'er the thicket green. <br>O then, though Spenser's self had stray'd <br>Beside him through the lovely glade, <br>Lending his rich luxuriant glow <br>Of fancy, all its charms to show, <br>Pointing the stream rejoicing free, <br>As captive set at liberty, <br>Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, <br>And clamouring joyful on her road; <br>Pointing where, up the sunny banks, <br>The trees retire in scatter'd ranks, <br>Save where, advanced before the rest, <br>On knoll or hillock rears his crest, <br>Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, <br>As champions, when their band is broke, <br>Stand forth to guard the rearward post, <br>The bulwark of the scatter'd host <br>All this, and more, might Spenser say, <br>Yet waste in vain his magic lay, <br>While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower, <br>Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII. <br>The open vale is soon pass'd o'er, <br>Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more; <br>Sinking mid Greta's thickets deep, <br>A wild and darker course they keep, <br>A stern and lone, yet lovely road, <br>As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode! <br>Broad shadows o'er their passage fell, <br>Deeper and narrower grew the dell; <br>It seem'd some mountain, rent and riven, <br>A channel for the stream had given, <br>So high the cliffs of limestone gray <br>Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, <br>Yielding, along their rugged base, <br>A flinty footpath's niggard space, <br>Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and wave, <br>May hear the headlong torrent rave, <br>And like a steed in frantic fit, <br>That flings the froth from curb and bit, <br>May view her chafe her waves to spray, <br>O'er every rock that bars her way, <br>Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, <br>Thick as the schemes of human pride <br>That down life's current drive amain, <br>As frail, as frothy, and as vain! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII.<br>The cliffs that rear their haughty head <br>High o'er the river's darksome bed, <br>Were now all naked, wild, and gray, <br>Now waving all with greenwood spray; <br>Here trees to every crevice clung, <br>And o'er the dell their branches hung; <br>And there, all splinter'd and uneven, <br>The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven; <br>Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast, <br>And wreathed its garland round their crest, <br>Or from the spires bade loosely flare <br>Its tendrils in the middle air. <br>As pensons wont to wave of old <br>O'er the high feast of Baron bold, <br>When revell'd loud the feudal rout, <br>And the arch'd halls return'd their shout; <br>Such and more wild is Greta's roar, <br>And such the echoes from her shore. <br>And so the ivied banners gleam, <br>Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX. <br>Now from the stream the rocks recede, <br>But leave between no sunny mead, <br>No, nor the spot of pebbly sand, <br>Oft found by such a mountain strand; <br>Forming such warm and dry retreat, <br>As fancy deems the lonely seat, <br>Where hermit, wandering from his cell, <br>His rosary might love to tell. <br>But here, 'twixt rock and river, grew <br>A dismal grove of sable yew, <br>With whose sad tints were mingled seen <br>The blighted fir's sepulchral green. <br>Seem'd that tile trees their shadows cast <br>The earth that nourish'd them to blast; <br>For never knew that swarthy grove <br>The verdant hue that fairies love; <br>Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower, <br>Arose within its baleful bower: <br>The dank and sable earth receives <br>Its only carpet from the leaves, <br>That, from the withering branches cast, <br>Bestrew'd the ground with every blast. <br>Though now the sun was o'er the hill, <br>In this dark spot 'twas twilight still, <br>Save that on Greta's further side <br>Some straggling beams through copsewood glide; <br>And wild and savage contrast made <br>That dingle's deep and funeral shade, <br>With the bright tints of early day, <br>Which, glimmering through the ivy spray, <br>On the opposing summit lay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X. <br>The lated peasant shunn'd the dell; <br>For Superstition wont to tell <br>Of many a grisly sound and sight, <br>Scaring its path at dead of night. <br>When Christmas logs blaze high and wide, <br>Such wonders speed the festal tide; <br>While Curiosity and Fear, <br>Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near, <br>Till childhood's cheek no longer glows, <br>And village maidens lose the rose. <br>The thrilling interest rises higher, <br>The circle closes nigh and nigher, <br>And shuddering glance is cast behind, <br>As louder moans the wintry wind. <br>Believe, that fitting scene was laid <br>For such wild tales in Mortham glade; <br>For who had seen, on Greta's side, <br>By that dim light fierce Bertram stride, <br>In such a spot, at such an hour, <br>If touch'd by Superstition's power, <br>Might well have deemed that Hell had given <br>A murderer's ghost to upper heaven, <br>While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to glide <br>Like his pale victim by his side. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI. <br>Nor think to village swains alone <br>Are these unearthly terrors known; <br>For not to rank nor sex confined <br>Is this vain ague of the mind: <br>Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, <br>Gainst faith, and love, and pity barr'd, <br>Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May, <br>Beneath its universal sway. <br>Bertram had listed many a tale <br>Of wonder in his native dale, <br>That in his secret soul retain'd <br>The credence they in childhood gain'd: <br>Nor less his wild adventurous youth <br>Believed in every legend's truth; <br>Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale, <br>Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail, <br>And the broad Indian moon her light <br>Pour'd on the watch of middle night, <br>When seamen love to hear and tell <br>Of portent, prodigy, and spell: <br>What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, <br>How whistle rash bids tempests roar, <br>Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite, <br>Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light; <br>Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form <br>Shoots like a meteor through the storm; <br>When the dark scud comes driving hard, <br>And lower'd is every topsail-yard, <br>And canvas, wove in earthly looms, <br>No more to brave the storm presumes! <br>Then, 'mid the war of sea and sky, <br>Top and top-gallant hoisted high, <br>Full spread and crowded every sail, <br>The Demon Frigate braves the gale; <br>And well the doom'd spectators know <br>The harbinger of wreck and woe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII. <br>Then, too, were told, in stifled tone, <br>Marvels and omens all their own; <br>How, by some desert isle or key, <br>Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty, <br>Or where the savage pirate's mood <br>Repaid it home in deeds of blood, <br>Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear <br>Appall'd the listening Buccaneer, <br>Whose light-armed shallop anchored lay <br>In ambush by the lonely bay. <br>The groan of grief, the shriek of pain, <br>Ring from the moonlight groves of cane; <br>The fierce adventurer's heart they scare, <br>Who wearies memory for a prayer, <br>Curses the road-stead, and with gale <br>Of early morning lifts the sail, <br>To give, in thirst of blood and prey, <br>A legend for another bay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII. <br>Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, <br>Train'd in the mystic and the wild, <br>With this on Bertram's soul at times <br>Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes; <br>Such to his troubled soul their form, <br>As the pale Death-ship to the storm, <br>And such their omen dim and dread, <br>As shrieks and voices of the dead, <br>That pang, whose transitory force <br>Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse; <br>That pang, perchance, his bosom press'd, <br>As Wilfrid sudden he address'd: <br>'Wilfrid, this glen is never trod <br>Until the sun rides high abroad; <br>Yet twice have I beheld to-day <br>A Form, that seem'd to dog our way; <br>Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee, <br>And shroud itself by cliff or tree. <br>How think'st thou?-Is our path waylaid? <br>Or hath thy sire my trust betray'd? <br>If so'-Ere, starting from his dream, <br>That turn'd upon a gentler theme, <br>Wilfrid had roused him to reply, <br>Bertram sprung forward, shouting high, <br>'Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand!' <br>And forth he darted, sword in hand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV. <br>As bursts the levin in its wrath, <br>He shot him down the sounding path; <br>Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out, <br>To his loud step and savage shout. <br>Seems that the object of his race <br>Hath scal'd the cliffs; his frantic chase <br>Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent <br>Right up the rock's tall battlement; <br>Straining each sinew to ascend, <br>Foot, hand, and knee, their aid must lend. <br>Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, <br>Views, from beneath, his dreadful way: <br>Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings, <br>Now trusts his weight to ivy strings; <br>Now, like the wild goat, must he dare <br>An unsupported leap in air; <br>Hid in the shrubby rain-course now, <br>You mark him by the crashing bough, <br>And by his corslet's sullen clank, <br>And by the stones spurn'd from the bank, <br>And by the hawk scar'd from her nest, <br>And ravens croaking o'er their guest, <br>Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay <br>The tribute of his bold essay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV. <br>See, he emerges!-desperate now <br>All further course-Yon beetling brow, <br>In craggy nakedness sublime, <br>What heart or foot shall dare to climb? <br>It bears no tendril for his clasp, <br>Presents no angle to his grasp: <br>Sole stay his foot may rest upon, <br>Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone. <br>Balanced on such precarious prop, <br>He strains his grasp to reach the top. <br>Just as the dangerous stretch he makes, <br>By heaven, his faithless footstool shakes! <br>Beneath its tottering bulk it bends, <br>It sways,…it loosens,…it descends! <br>And downward holds its headlong way, <br>Crashing o'er rock and copsewood spray. <br>Loud thunders shake the echoing dell! <br>Fell it alone?-alone it fell. <br>Just on the very verge of fate, <br>The hardy Bertram's falling weight <br>He trusted to his sinewy hands, <br>And on the top unharm'd he stands! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI. <br>Wilfrid a safer path pursued; <br>At intervals where, roughly hew'd, <br>Rude steps ascending from the dell <br>Render'd the cliffs accessible. <br>By circuit slow he thus attain'd <br>The height that Risingham had gain'd, <br>And when he issued from the wood, <br>Before the gate of Mortham stood. <br>'Twas a fair scene! the sunbeam lay <br>On battled tower and portal gray: <br>And from the glassy slope he sees <br>The Greta flow to meet the Tees; <br>Where, issuing from her darksomne bed, <br>She caught the morning's eastern red, <br>And through the softening vale below <br>Roll'd her bright waves, in rosy glow, <br>All blushing to her bridal bed, <br>Like some shy maid in convent bred; <br>While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay, <br>Sing forth her nuptial roundelay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII. <br>'Twas sweetly sung that roundelay; <br>That summer morn shone blithe and gay; <br>But morning beam, and wild-bird's call, <br>Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. <br>No porter, by the low-brow'd gate, <br>Took in the wonted niche his seat; <br>To the paved court no peasant drew; <br>Waked to their toil no menial crew; <br>The maiden's carol was not heard, <br>As to her morning task she fared: <br>In the void offices around, <br>Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound; <br>Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh, <br>Accused the lagging groom's delay; <br>Untrinmm'd, undress'd, neglected now, <br>Was alley'd walk and orchard bough; <br>All spoke the master's absent care, <br>All spoke neglect and disrepair. <br>South of the gate, an arrow flight, <br>Two mighty elms their limbs unite, <br>As if a canopy, to spread <br>O'er the lone dwelling of the dead; <br>For their huge bows in arches bent <br>Above a massive monument, <br>Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise, <br>With many a scutcheon and device: <br>There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, <br>Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII. <br>'It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost! <br>Behind this tomb,' he said, ''twas lost <br>This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies stored <br>Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. <br>Tis true, the aged servants said <br>Here his lamented wife is laid; <br>But weightier reasons may be guess'd <br>For their Lord's strict and stern behest, <br>That none should on his steps intrude, <br>Whene'er he sought this solitude. <br>An ancient mariner I knew, <br>What time I sail'd with Morgan's crew, <br>Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake <br>Of Raleigh, Forbisher, and Drake; <br>Adventurous hearts! Who barter'd, bold, <br>Their English steel for Spanish gold. <br>Trust not, would his experience say, <br>Captain or comrade with your prey; <br>But seek some charnel, when, at full, <br>The moon gilds skeleton and skull: <br>There dig, and tomb your precious heap; <br>And bid the dead your treasure keep; <br>Sure stewards they, if fitting spell <br>Their service to the task compel. <br>Lacks there such charnel?-kill a slave, <br>Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave; <br>And bid his discontented ghost <br>Stalk nightly on his lonely post. <br>Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, <br>Is in my morning vision seen.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX. <br>Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild, <br>In mingled mirth and pity smiled, <br>Much marvelling that a breast so bold <br>In such fond tale belief should hold; <br>But yet of Bertram sought to know <br>The apparition's form and show. <br>The power within the guilty breast, <br>Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd, <br>That unsubdued and lurking lies <br>To take the felon by surprise, <br>And force him, as by magic spell, <br>In his despite his guilt to tell, <br>That power in Bertram's breast awoke; <br>Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke; <br>''Twas Mortham's form, from foot to head! <br>His morion, with the plume of red, <br>His shape, his mien- 'twas Mortham, right <br>As when I slew him in the fight.' <br>'Thou slay him?-thou?' With conscious start <br>He heard, then mann'd his haughty heart <br>I slew him?-I! I had forgot <br>Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot. <br>But it is spoken-nor will I <br>Deed done, or spoken word, deny. <br>I slew him; I! For thankless pride; <br>'Twas by this hand that Mortham died.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX. <br>Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, <br>Averse to every active part, <br>But most averse to martial broil, <br>From danger shrunk, and turn'd from toil; <br>Yet the meek lover of the lyre <br>Nursed one brave spark of noble fire; <br>Against injustice, fraud, or wrong, <br>His blood beat high, his hand wax'd strong. <br>Not his the nerves that could sustain, <br>Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain; <br>But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, <br>He rose superior to his frame. <br>And now it came, that generous mood; <br>And, in full current of his blood, <br>On Bertram he laid desperate hand, <br>Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. <br>'Should every fiend, to whom thou'rt sold, <br>Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. <br>Arouse there, ho! take spear and sword! <br>Attach the murderer of your Lord!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI. <br>A moment, fix'd as by a spell, <br>Stood Bertram-It seem'd miracle, <br>That one so feeble, soft, and tame, <br>Set grasp on warlike Risingham. <br>But when he felt a feeble stroke, <br>The fiend within the ruffian woke! <br>To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand, <br>To dash him headlong on the sand, <br>Was but one moment's work,-one more <br>Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore; <br>But, in the instant it arose, <br>To end his life, his love, his woes, <br>A warlike form, that mark'd the scene, <br>Presents his rapier sheathed between, <br>Parries the fast-descending blow, <br>And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe; <br>Nor then unscabbarded his brand, <br>But, sternly pointing with his hand, <br>With monarch's voice forbade the fight, <br>And motion'd Bertram from his sight. <br>'Go, and repent,' he said, 'while time <br>Is given thee; add not crime to crime.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII. <br>Mute, and uncertain, and amazed, <br>As on a vision Bertram gazed! <br>‘Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high, <br>His sinewy frame, his falcon eye, <br>His look and accent of command, <br>The martial gesture of his hand, <br>His stately form, spare-built and tall, <br>His war-bleach'd locks- 'twas Mortham all. <br>Through Bertram's dizzy brain career <br>A thousand thoughts, and all of fear; <br>His wavering faith received not quite <br>The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, <br>But more he fear'd it, if it stood <br>His lord, in living flesh and blood. <br>What spectre can the charnel send, <br>So dreadful as an injured friend? <br>Then, too, the habit of command, <br>Used by the leader of the band, <br>When Risingham, for many a day, <br>Had march'd and fought beneath his sway, <br>Tamed him-and, with reverted face, <br>Backwards he bore his sullen pace; <br>Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared, <br>And dark as rated mastiff glared; <br>But when the tramp of steeds was heard, <br>Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd, <br>Nor longer there the Warrior stood, <br>Retiring eastward through the wood; <br>But first to Wilfrid warning gives, <br>'Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII. <br>Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear, <br>Hinting he knew not what of fear; <br>When nearer came the coursers' tread, <br>And, with his father at their head, <br>Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power <br>Rein'd up their steeds before the tower. <br>'Whence these pale looks, my son?' he said: <br>'Where's Bertram?-Why that naked blade?' <br>Wilfrid ambiguously replied, <br>(For Mortham's charge his honour tied,) <br>'Bertram is gone-the villain's word <br>Avouch'd him murderer of his lord! <br>Even now we fought-but, when your tread <br>Announced you nigh, the felon fled.' <br>In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear <br>A guilty hope, a guilty fear; <br>On his pale brow the dewdrop broke, <br>And his lip quiver'd as he spoke:- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV. <br>'A murderer!-Philip Mortham died <br>Amid the battle's wildest tide. <br>Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you! <br>Yet, grant such strange confession true, <br>Pursuit were vain-let him fly far—- <br>Justice must sleep in civil war.' <br>A gallant Youth rode near his side, <br>Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried; <br>That morn, an embassy of weight <br>He brought to Barnard's castle gate, <br>And followed now in Wycliffe's train, <br>An answer for his lord to gain. <br>His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck <br>An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, <br>Chafed not against the curb more high <br>Than he at Oswald's cold reply; <br>He bit his lip, implored his saint, <br>(His the old faith)-then burst restraint. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV. <br>'Yes! I beheld his bloody fall, <br>By that base traitor's dastard ball, <br>Just when I thought to measure sword, <br>Presumptuous hope! with Mortham's lord. <br>And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew <br>His leader, generous, brave, and true? <br>Escape, while on the dew you trace <br>The marks of his gigantic pace? <br>No! ere the sun that dew shall dry <br>False Risingham shall yield or die. <br>Ring out the castle 'larum bell! <br>Arouse the peasants with the knell! <br>Meantime disperse-ride, gallants, ride! <br>Beset the wood on every side. <br>But if among you one there be, <br>That honours Mortham's memory, <br>Let him dismount and follow me! <br>Else on your crests sit fear and shame, <br>And foul suspicion dog your name!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI. <br>Instant to earth young Redmond sprung; <br>Instant on earth the harness rung <br>Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, <br>Who waited not their lord's command. <br>Redmond his spurs from buskins drew, <br>His mantle from his shoulders threw, <br>His pistols in his belt he placed, <br>The green-wood gain'd, the footsteps traced, <br>Shouted like huntsmen to his bounds, <br>'To cover, hark!'-and in he bounds. <br>Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry, <br>'Suspicion! yes-pursue him-fly <br>But venture not, in useless strife, <br>On ruffian desperate of his life, <br>Whoever finds him, shoot him dead! <br>Five hundred nobles for his head!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII. <br>The horsemen gallop'd, to make good <br>Each path that issued from the wood. <br>Loud from the thickets rung the shout <br>Of Redmond and his eager route; <br>With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire, <br>And envying Redmond's martial fire, <br>And emulous of fame.-But where <br>Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir? <br>He, bound by honour, law, and faith, <br>Avenger of his kinsman's death? <br>Leaning against the elmin tree, <br>With drooping head and slacken'd knee, <br>And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd hands, <br>In agony of soul he stands! <br>His downcast eye on earth is bent, <br>His soul to every sound is lent; <br>For in each shout that cleaves the air, <br>May ring discovery and despair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII. <br>What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd <br>The morning sun on Mortham's glade? <br>All seems in giddy round to ride, <br>Like objects on a stormy tide, <br>Seen eddying by the moonlight dim, <br>Imperfectly to sink and swim. <br>What 'vail'd it, that tile fair domain, <br>Its battled mansion, hill, and plain, <br>On which the sun so brightly shone, <br>Envied so long, was now his own? <br>The lowest dungeon, in that hour, <br>Of Brackenbury's dismal tower, <br>Had been his choice, could such a doom <br>Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb! <br>Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear <br>To each surmise of hope or fear, <br>Murmur'd among the rustics round, <br>Who gather'd at the 'larum sound; <br>He dared not turn his head away, <br>E'en to look up to heaven to pray, <br>Or call on hell, in bitter mood, <br>For one sharp death-shot from the wood! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX. <br>At length o'erpast that dreadful space, <br>Back straggling came the scatter'd chase; <br>Jaded and weary, horse and man, <br>Return'd the troopers, one by one. <br>Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say, <br>All trace was lost of Bertram's way, <br>Though Redmond still, up Brignall wood, <br>The hopeless quest in vain pursued. <br>0, fatal doom of human race! <br>What tyrant passions passions chase! <br>Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone, <br>Avarice and pride resume their throne; <br>The pang of instant terror by, <br>They dictate us their slave's reply: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX. <br>'Ay-let him range like hasty hound! <br>And if the grim wolf's lair be found, <br>Small is my care how goes the game <br>With Redmond, or with Risingham. <br>Nay, answer not, thou simple boy! <br>Thy fair Matilda, all so coy <br>To thee, is of another mood <br>To that bold youth of Erin's blood. <br>Thy ditties will she freely praise, <br>And pay thy pains with courtly phrase; <br>In a rough path will oft command <br>Accept at least-thy friendly hand; <br>His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd, <br>Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid, <br>While conscious passion plainly speaks <br>In downcast look and blushing cheeks. <br>Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh, <br>And all her soul is in her eye; <br>Yet doubts she still to tender free <br>The wonted words of courtesy. <br>These are strong signs!-yet wherefore sigh, <br>And wipe, effeminate, thine eye? <br>Thine shall she be, if thou attend <br>The counsels of thy sire and friend. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI. <br>'Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of light <br>Brought genuine news of Marston's fight. <br>Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide, <br>And conquest bless'd the rightful side; <br>Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, <br>Rupert and that bold Marquis fled; <br>Nobles and knights, so proud of late, <br>Must fine for freedom and estate. <br>Of these, committed to my charge, <br>Is Rokeby, prisoner at large; <br>Redmond, his page, arrived to say <br>He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. <br>Right heavy shall his ransom be, <br>Unless that maid compound with thee! <br>Go to her now-be bold of cheer, <br>While her soul floats ‘twixt hope and fear; <br>It is the very change of tide, <br>When best the female heart is tried <br>Pride, prejudice, and modesty, <br>Are in the current swept to sea; <br>And the bold swain, who plies his oar, <br>May lightly row his bark to shore.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519665" data-title="Rokeby: Canto II. de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="I. Far in the chambers of the west, The gale had sigh'd itself to rest; The moon was cloudless now and clear, But pale, and soon to disappear. The thin grey clouds wax dimly light On Brusleton and Houghton height; And the rich dale, that ea..."></div> </div> </div>

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