I.

Oh, I do feel thee now! oh, once again

Warm gleams of rapture burst upon my brain!

Quick heaves my lab’ring breast, and to my
eyes,

Lo! what strange forms in long succession rise!

Oh, Muse belov’d, I know thee now!

I feel thee glowing in my soul,

I feel thy beam upon my brow,

I feel thee thro’ each artery roll

Tumultuous, fierce and bright—impatient of controul!

II.

Lead on, my Muse! For many a day,

With rapid pulse and uprais’d eye,

How I have chidden thy delay

And woo’d thee from thy sky!

Oh, thou art she who led me forth

Mid the cold mountains of the north,

Where freezing whirlwinds blow;

She, whose benign and generous glow

Pour’d warmth into my heart even in those realms
of snow.

III.

Lo! where old Walden’s hallowed wood Open note Back to note

Bends its grey arms o’er Tyne’s fair flood,

There, in the dark and distant years

Deep swallowed by oblivious time,

Long pour’d a saintOpen note 1Back to note ¹ his holy tears

For human care and human crime;

And, as they say, no elvish sprite,

Nor imp, nor goblin’s wayward powers,

Even in the darkness of the night,

May blight old Waldens’s bowers,

Because the holy man forbade

That aught accurs’d should tread that venerable
shade.

IV.

But time rolls on; the once green spray,

Moss-mantled now, is turned to grey,

And, tears and painful penance paid,

The saint, long since, in dust is laid.

Well may he rest! for harder fare

Did never mortal pilgrim share.

In bitter drops he steep’d his bread,

Earth’s flinty bosom was his bed;

He thought it meet thro’ life to go

Frowning in voluntary woe;

And still his spirit did not bend,

He bore, unmurmuring, to the end;

For well he ween’d, man’s little lot

Is but a speck, a point, a spot,

A moment’s conflict bravely borne,

The prize, eternal day! an ever golden morn!

V.

Well! rest his spirit! In the dell

Where once this holy man did dwell,

And where amid this later age,

Still peeps the ivied hermitage,

Where close the social branches twin’d

O’erarch the pensive wanderer’s head,

Where, seldom scar’d by human tread,

Meek, musing Silence sits enshrin’d—

Oh, now, from whence arise the echoes rude

That wake the slumbering scene, and break its
solitude?

VI.

The dawn just risen o’er Walden’s shade

Had rouz’d the warblers from their nests,

When, mid the centre of the glade,

Its ruddy light the forms betray’d

Of fearful, strange, unwonted guests!

Now, who is she, whose awful mien,

Whose dauntless step’s firm dignity,

Whose high-arch’d brow, sedate, serene,

Whose eyes, unbending, strong and keen,

The solemn presence hint of conscious majesty?

VII.

But she is calm:—a peace profound

On the unruffled surface rests;

Yet is that breast in iron bound,

And fill’d with rude and sullen guests.

No female weakness harbour’d there,

Relentings soft, nor shrinking fear,

Within its centre deep abide:

The stern resolve, the purpose dire,

And grim revenge’s quenchless fire,

The intrepid thought, cold, thawless pride

And fortitude, in torture tried,—

These are the gentlest inmates now,

Tho’ lawless love, they say, once heard its secret
vow.

IX.

Mark well that port sublime, that peerless
mein!

Then duteous, bend to earth the vassal knee,

For she it is,—meek Henry’s warrior Queen!

Unquell’d by frowning Fortune’s hard decree,

She stems with royal spirit, unsubdued,

Of many a stormy day the conflict rude,

And meets, with scornful brow, the wrongs of
destiny.

X.

Margaret, her solemn counsel o’er,

On the arm’d warrior bends her eye,

As she would fain the thoughts explore

Which treasur’d in his bosom lie;

Clifford, with honest, ready zeal,Open note Back to note

Thus boldly meets the mute appeal,

“Doubt not, my Queen, thy soldier’s word,

While, looking on thy princely bud,

He swears to plant it with his sword,

And feed it with his blood.”

XI.

If aught by gentler spirits felt

In that stern baron’s bosom dwelt,

It wak’d as he beheld with joy

The promise of the royal boy,

As something like a father’s sigh

Commingled with his loyalty!

Nature, when, with creative toil,

By unmark’d crowds, thou mouldest man,

The trampled earth, the common soil

Supplies the general plan;—

But when a godlike soul demands

Fit clothing from thy skilful hands,

Thy care explores the secret mine

Where gold is form’d, where diamonds shine:

Earth’s finest atoms never yet

To mould a fairer fabric met,

Than shrin’d the spirit bright of young Plantagenet.

XII.

Alas, sweet rose! thou dost but blow,

The wonder of a ruthless season!

Gay bloom thy petals, while below

Preys at thy root the canker treason!

And thou shalt fall! But shall the Muse

In sullen silence see thee perish,

And shall her rigid eye refuse

The bright, benign, embalming dews

Which fall the hero’s name to cherish?

XIII.

“Brave Clifford!” cried the gallant youth,

With glowing cheek and kindling eye,

“Long since thy deeds have seal’d thy truth,

Bright pledges of thy fealty!

Then swear not!—Should mistrust pervade,

Wavering and base, thy prince’s heart,

Go, leave him—meet to be betrayed!

And conquer on some nobler part!

XIV.

Yet, Baron, in thy manly breast

Some shrinkings cold may well abide,

To see our princely House’s pride

On such a feeble column rest!

And, trust me, I forgive the sigh

With which e’en now I mark’d thee trace,

Heedful, intent, with pensive eye,

The untried stripling’s beardless face;

Yet ere this young and smiling day

Shall change his crimson robe for grey,

And faint and falter on his way,

Or I will win thy generous trust

Or shroud my feebleness in dust!”

XV.

Now to the Cumbrian Baron’s ear

I wot that modest boast was dear.

“Oh, by St. George!” he cried, “to-day

This boy shall shew our veterans play!

Spirit of Monmouth! even now

I hear thee speak! I see thee glow!

Beneath our banners walks there one

On whom the breath of fear has blown,

Who, marching coldly to the fray

Thinks sadly on the close of day,

Now let him cheerly lift his head,

’Tis Monmouth’s spirit leads, which never droop’d
or fled!”

XVII.

“What, Clifford! wouldst thou teach thy tongue,

Thy rude and rugged tongue, to praise?

Trust me, it ill abides the wrong,

And awkwardly its task obeys,

It hates to mould the courtier’s phrase!

Oh, I have heard it in the field

In thunder bid a foeman yield;

And I have heard its thrilling shout

Recal the base, dispersing rout;

And I have heard it rend the sky

With the bless’d peal of victory;

But never, Clifford, wilt thou teach

That organ, tun’d to war, the flatterer’s silver
speech!

XVIII.

Now hear me, Edward! In thy heart,

Thy arm and sword, put I my trust!

Margaret invokes not, on thy part,

A grandsire from the dust!

Go, win me back thy father’s throne;

And, even as the wrong, be the success thine own!

XIX.

Know, Prince, I send thee not to war

As son by low-born mother sent:—

Serene and fix’d, I watch thy star

Now rising in the firmament,

And wait unshrinking the event!

To its high course if Fate unkind

Has but a short career assign’d

Yet, falling, it may leave a brilliant track behind!

XX.

Oh, heaven! what evil days of gloom

Have left their furrows in my breast!

Yet distant, distant be the doom

Which stays my troubles in the tomb

And yields ignoble rest!

Where is the pang, the woe, the care,

This dauntless spirit shall not dare?

What path too rugged, wild and strange,

For Margaret’s fearless foot to range?

Ordain but heaven that, at the last,

Guerdon of wrongs and sorrows past,

She feeds, she feasts her eager eye

Upon her foeman’s misery!”

XXI.

Bright was the beam of Edward’s eye,

And rich the bloom on Edward’s cheek,

Yet from his gallant breast a sigh,

A human sigh, did break;

He sighed to think so dire a guest

Might harbour in a woman’s breast!

XXII.

“Mother, from yonder concave sky,

Far rais’d above our earthly ken,

An awful, just, eternal eye

Looks on the deeds of men!

Whether in open, manly wise,

With glowing blood, in combat bold

I seize the hard contested prize,

Or loosen honour’s noble ties

With hand deliberate and cold,

Shall that unerring eye behold!

XXIII.

Oh, rather fail this ardent breath,

And palsied sink this hand in death,

Ere with keen taunt, and lingering blow,

I hover o’er a fallen foe!

No! when the battle rages dire,

And the rouz’d soul is all on fire,

Think’st thou a noble heart can stay

Hate’s rancorous impulse to obey?”

XXIV.

“Then, Madam, said the Cumbrian lord,

Bid him obey thy just behest

Who still delights with lance or sword,

Or sharper edge of bitter word,

To goad thy foeman’s breast!

The lance unblunted still remains

Which open’d Rutland’s infant veins;

Proud York, the voice which on thine ear

Pour’d sounds thy soul abhorr’d to hear,

Still frames, to vex thy rebel race,

Like words of insult and disgrace!”

XXV.

“Enough, good Clifford. Yonder throng

Of lawless rebels know thee well;

Nor holds yon hostile camp a tongue

Which, mix’d with curses, cannot tell

That Clifford’s name is dire and fell Open note Back to note

As ban-dog’s howl, or witch’s spell.

Warriors, begone!—the advancing day

To glory summons ye away!

Begone! a breathless nation waits—

And Victory the lingerer hates!

Begone, begone!—his steps are slow

Who hears a woman bid him go!

Away! Towards yonder royal height,

My eaglet, imp thy wing for flight!

Be rapid and be bold!—and God defend thy
right!”

XXVI.

“Yet, mother, yet—how long soe’er

The coming conflict may appear,

Oh, let no ill-endur’d suspense,

No keen impatience tempt thee hence!

Success sometimes a traitor proves;

But, Lady, while thou shelterest here

Amid these dark and hallow’d groves,

Nor wrong, nor insult shalt thou fear!

If, which the powers of heaven forefend!

Our blushing Rose her stalk must bend,

Yet, thou art safe—some loyal hand,

Spar’d mid the ruin of our band,

Unknown, shall lead thee hence to Scotia’s friendly
land.”

XXVII.

“Get thee to horse!—if longer here

Thou waste in idle talk the day,

By heaven! ourself will seize the spear,

And rush before thee to the fray!”

But while she spake the taunting word,

Audacious, ardent and elate

Young Edward on the saddle sate,

And ne’er did lovelier, braver lord

Ride forth to challenge Fate!

XXVIII.

As Clifford vaulted on his steed,

New sounds along the woodland rang,

For the veteran’s ponderous weed

Echo repeats the bruyant clang;

The gallant steed obey’d the check,

Used his master’s strong command,

As bending o’er his arching neck

Courteous he kiss’d his iron hand,

XXIX.

They are gone! The half embracing boughs

Before their rapid course recede,

But soon again the branches close

Concealing man and steed:—

Awhile the Queen a listener stood

And eager caught the lessening sound,

Which faint and fainter smote the ground,

Of war-horse fleet and good;

Then Margaret turn’d, and turning smil’d,

Yet ghastly was the smile, and wild,

As inwardly she breath’d a farewell to her child.

XXX.

She was alone: nor sound, nor sight,

Or near or distant, met her sense;

’Twas like the stillness of the night,

Or fearful pausing of suspense.—

That breathless, noiseless calm oppress’d

The warrior Queen’s unquiet breast;

She fear’d, tho’ all unus’d to fear,

And, trembling, felt that God was near!

Yet Margaret pray’d not, tho’ her child,

Her only child, mid havoc stood,

And hardly staid the effort wild

Of foeman burning for his blood,—

She rais’d not for her gallant son

The mother’s tender orison!

XXXI.

The yielding turf as Margaret press’d

She listen’d eager for a sound,

She felt the discord in her breast

Insulted by the peace profound,

And darkly on the scene she frown’d;

Yet still the woodland smil’d serene,

Unconscious of the frowning Queen!

XXXII.

Now from the distant battle field

A mingled sound of tumult came;

The lady starts—for all her frame

With strange delight is thrill’d!—

“The stern defiance then is past!

Our trumpets have provok’d the foe,

And at the loud triumphant blast

Rebellion vails his caitiff brow;—

Lo, they encounter!—horse to horse

In gallant onset wildly dashing!

Methinks I mark their headlong course,—

I hear, I hear the menace hoarse!

I see their falchions fiery flashing!—

I hear the ponderous shock of arms together
clashing!

XXXIII.

Ill didst thou, Nature, to combine

With woman’s form a soul like mine!

What heart in either grim array

Throbs to the charge with wilder beat!

What ear so loves the trumpet’s bray

That bids contending thousands meet!

Whose thirst like mine, when blood of foes

Warm from the gasping fountain flows!

Whose nerves more firmly brac’d to dare!

Who loves like me to crush! who hates like me
to spare!”

XXXIV.

When Winter in his wrath unbinds

With ruthless hand his ruffian winds,

And sends them forth in fierce career

The shuddering leafless groves to tear,

Strange voices seem to fill the sky.—

And now the rude and boisterous North,

Like threatning thousands, clamours forth,—

And now one deep convulsive sigh

Upon the ear sobs sullenly!—

Next comes a ghastly pause—and now

Again with rallying force the gather’d whirlwinds
blow.

XXXV.

Thus sometimes to the royal dame,

With sudden burst, the rumour came

As ’twould the welkin fill,—

And then at once upon the gale

The victor-shout, the dying wail,

And all the mingling sounds would fail

As if the bloody work stood still!

XXXVI.

Now, flashing thro’ the leafy screen,—

Revealed now—and now unseen—

In lustrous panoply array’d

A knight came glancing thro’ the glade;

Right on he rode:—his urgent speed

Nor check nor barrier might impede,

For swift the opposing branches fell,

Like foes beneath his trenchant steel;—

Swift rode he as the winged blast,

Sharply he spurr’d his willing steed,

And, in his overweening haste,

Even she he sought he would have past,

So headlong was his speed!

XXXVII.

The Queen beheld with angry eye

The hot-brained knight’s career,

And now her voice she sent on high

With accent shrill and clear,

“Stay thee, Sir Knight! if cowardly

From yonder field thou dost not fly;

For never sure such speed had other goad than
fear!”

XXXIX.

Breathless he cries, “Hail, Royal Dame!

I bring thee news shall make thee smile!

’Twas therefore Beaufort hither came

And left the work of death awhile,

To fill thy dauntless heart with mirth,

And tell thee that the subject earth

Insatiate drinks, in thirsty mood,

Libations large of rebel blood!

The day is ours! and day more bright

Ne’er mid the welkin rose to gild auspicious
fight!

XL.

Before the onset, while we stood

In sullen, silent, grim delay,

Fronting the foe in vengeful mood,

Each bosom panting for the fray,

Even then, before a foot was stirr’d,

Before a trumpet-breath was heard,

Swift pass’d before my prophet sight

The glorious issue of the fight;—

For, Lady, as with eager eye

The rebels’ level lines I scann’d

The gale, averse and drowsily,

The hostile streamers fann’d

Close to its staff the banner clung,

Forlorn each chieftain’s plumage hung,

And ne’er, methought, with colder cheer

Did warlike band to foe draw near!—

For us, upon the buoyant gale

Banners and plumes were proudly floating,

While from our gaily glancing mail

Long streams of radiance pour’d, heaven’s fav’ring
smile denoting.”

XLI.

Now when the knight, o’erblown and panting,

Paus’d because breath and speech were
wanting,

And lean’d in silence on his sword,

The Queen, with penetrating word,

Half doubting, half in hope, bespake the youthful
lord.

XXLII.

“Oh, say, Lord Edmund, art thou sure,

Sure art thou that the day is ours?

Is veering victory quite secure,

Quite broken are yon rebels powers?—

And didst thou see the victory won,

And see the hot pursuit begun?

Did Montague forsake the fight? Open note Back to note

Did Warwick fly the adverse field?

Oh, conquest proud!—triumphant sight,

To see the stubborn Warwick yield!

Half England’s treasure would I give

To him who takes that lord alive!

One groan, one heart—wrung groan, from thee,

Warwick, were more than victory!—

But say, Lord Edmund, soothly say,

Does Fate confirm the victory ours,

Or merely, in capricious play,

A moment shine upon our day,

In darkness once again to plunge its endless
hours?”

XLIII.

Meanwhile the Knight had loos’d the brace

Which close the stifling beaver tied,

And with embroider’d kerchief dried,

By Margaret’s royal hand supplied,

The dew which bath’d his glowing face:

Reflection now reproved the wrong

Done rashly by his sanguine tongue,

For now the generous youth was forc’d

To chill the joy his ardour nurs’d.

XLIV.

“When princely Edward bade me speed

To thee with goodly tidings fraught,

As swift I flew as winged thought,

So eagerly I prick’d my steed;

And now, I fear, the race intense

Confus’d and whirl’d my giddy sense,

And taught my foolish tongue to speak

At random, heedless, rash, and weak,

Of things as done which were beginning,

And of that prize as won, which we were only
winning!”

XLV.

Scarce eighteen rapid years had sped,

With trackless course, o’er Beaufort’s head,

And they who mark’d his beardless chin,

And ruddy lip, could ill have guess’d

The steady hate that lurk’d within

That youthful captain’s breast!

There, unappeasable and dire,

Stern Vengeance blew the ruthless fire,

And told him of his murder’d sire!

Train’d to the work of danger early,

Young Beaufort, joyous and content,

His latest life-drop would have spent

To nourish and maintain a cause he lov’d so
dearly!

XLVI.

Seldom Lord Edmund had beheld,

Save mid the strife of hostile field,

Of bended brow the menace keen;

And sure the wight whose visage grim

He glanc’d an angry look on him

Were ill advised, I ween; —

What was there then in woman’s frown

That brought this mounting spirit down?

For now, what man nor dar’d, nor could,

Queen Margaret’s look of scorn effected;

Abash’d, rebuk’d, young Beaufort stood,

Drooping his lofty crest, dishearten’d and dejected!

XLVII.

“Beshrew thee, rash presumptuous boy!

What! must the royal ear be fill’d

With every empty, idle toy,

At pleasure of a heedless child!

Go, teach thy crude unripen’d sense

The act of subject reverence:

And tell the Prince, when next he sends

His Mother and his Queen to greet,

’Twere well he sought, among his friends,

Embassador more meet!”

XLVII.

Scarce had the haughty Margaret’s word,

Like burning arrow, lanc’d his breast,

Than, feeling all his strength restor’d

Aloft young Beaufort flung his crest,

While o’er the cheek that shame had dy’d

Mantled the deeper glow of pride;

The flash which shot from either eye

The kindling of his soul betray’d,

Yet still his tongue confessed the tie

Impos’d by deep-sworn fealty,

Which all indignant phrase, or rough retort forbade.

XLIX.

He paus’d —while to the earth he cast

His eyes, which burn’d with angry flame:

“By princely Edward’s mandate grac’d,

To seek thy presence, royal Dame,

Unworthy of the charge, I came!—

‘Go, Beaufort, seek the Queen, and say

The heavens fight for us to-day!

Go, tell her, that the sunshine hour

Smiles gaily on our blushing flow’r;

Already, say, a thousand foes

Have shed their blood to feed our Rose;—

And tell her, that her son has vaunted

In heart of England’s Isle to see it firmly
planted!’

L.

Then, mid the center of the fight,

Audacious plung’d the royal Knight!

Till then—so please you—we had stood

Together striving with the flood;

As brother by the side of brother,

Our friendly shields still fenc’d each other:—,

Reluctant, I obey’d his word,

And stay’d, half quench’d, by my thirsty sword;—

Even as I left the glorious scene,

An humble herald to my Queen,

Mine ear was greeted by the cry,

The thunder-peal of Victory!

Scarce from the host had Beaufort parted,

Than, sweeping down upon the left,

Young Edward, like a falcon, darted,

And Hastings’ well-knit line with force resistless
cleft!

LI.

Now pardon, Lady!—ere I fly

To fight again for thee and thine,

Even as my father died, to die,

Perchance, for thy illustrious line,—

One moment’s pleading, Lady, hear,

One word for youthful Lancaster!

I know not but his princely eye

Sought vainly mid the armed throng,

One, whose hoar head, and pausing tongue,

And colder spirit, might supply

A missive meet for majesty:—

Alas, alas! the ripen’d ear

Has perished from your golden field!

The crops which now your meadows bear

A crude and unsunn’d harvest yield!

Each warrior sage, maturely brave,

Who to the blushing Red Rose clave,

Too early summon’d, yielded place

To us, a wild uncounsel’d race!

Our sires are past away—we combat on their
grave!”

LII.

The mild rebuke was all unfelt;

Idly it fell on Margaret’s ear,

Because her mind intensely dwelt

Upon a vision proud and dear,

The fame of youthful Lancaster!

Not with a mother’s tender joy

She thought upon her gallant boy,—

’Twas joy, concenter’d, and austere,

Unwater’d by maternal tear!

Unmingled with maternal fear!

Even such her joy as might possess

The breast of mountain lioness,

When first her flashing eyes behold

Her young ones raging wild amid the slaughter’d
fold.

LIII.

A smile so fraught with sovereign grace

Illum’d the Royal Lady’s face,

That well, I ween, the Knight forgot

That ireful glance those eyes had shot;

The smile just reach’d the galled heart,

And heal’d at once the wounded part.

LIV.

And now Lord Edmund, bending low,

Besought the Queen with courteous pray’r,

That she some guerdon might bestow,

Some relic, gaud, or riband fair:—

“Trust me, my Queen, this heedless boy,

Like relic bless’d, shall guard the toy;

And he will wear it in despite

Of yon Pale Rose’s sharpest thorn!

Oh! should her fiercest, proudest knight

Uplift his hand to do it scorn,

Malignant was the star that shone when he was
born!”

LV.

Then round his armed wrist she bound

Her kerchief, stiff with beaten gold,

Where, blushing fair on glittering ground,

The crimson rose you might behold;

Quick to his lips and to his breast

The royal hand young Beaufort press’d

Then swift upspringing rose the Knight,

And with impetuous hand he freed

The noose which held his bared steed,

And, wreckless of his cumbrous weed,

Leapt in his lofty seat, impatient for the fight!

I.

Oh, sorrow! which of Adam’s race

Has not beheld thy wrinkled face?

Of all the hearts which life has warm’d

Since the first man of clay was form’d;—

Of all the mortals who have hasten’d

Like shadows, o’er this rolling sphere,—

Has once return’d to earth unchasten’d

By thy reproof severe?

Each breast, however fortified

By courage, apathy, or pride

Has still some secret path for thee,

Man’s subtle foe, Adversity!

Along that secret way thou glidest,

And deep within the centre hidest,

And many a surface fair and shining

Conceals a wasted core, where thou art slowly
mining!

II.

Who knows thee not? If yesterday,

With lightsome step, escap’d thee, Sorrow,

Thou dost but lurk beside the way

To spring upon thy prey to-morrow,

And seize, secure, the fools who lie

Charm’d by Enjoyment’s lullaby!

Does Hope allure—Does Pleasure smile?

Then tread the rosy path with trembling,

For Pleasure beckons to beguile,

And Hope’s fair promise is dissembling!

Oh, then,—tho’ azure be thy sky,

Look for the cloud which comes to-morrow;

Thus only, Man, may’st thou defy

The unchanging word of Destiny,

Which to thy guilty lip decreed the cup of Sorrow!

III.

With leaden pace, hour after hour

Roll’d wearily away;

The dew-drop hung in every flow’r;

And now behind the western bow’r,

Slow sinking, shed the parting day

A bright yet melancholy ray,

A farewel glance,—then clos’d its eye,

And mingled with eternity!

IV.

Thro’ many a heavy hour the Queen

Sate musing mid the lonely scene;

She sate, with folded arms, reclining,

And anxious watch’d the day declining;

Amid the glen the evening wind

In low but fitful murmurs crept;

And where on high the branches twin’d

With nimble bound the squirrel leapt;

With rustling wing the speckled thrush

Flutter’d unseen within the bush,

And, as the twilight shades were falling,

Each bird is truant mate was calling;

And Margaret started oft, and thought

Each sound confus’d that met her ear

Proclaim’d the expected herald near,

From Hexham’s field of death, with fateful message
fraught!

V.

Rising above the silent wood,

Night’s regent pour’d a silver flood

And bright her glittering spangles fell

On many a sleeping flow’ret’s bell:

Margaret look’d upwards, and beheld

How, floating in her azure field,

She shone in dignity supreme,

Unmock’d by any rival beam;

With envy gaz’d the earthly Queen—

“Oh! thus, predominant, alone,

Thus would I fill the boundless scene,

And from my lofty seated throne

Like thee, my smiles and frowns bestow,

Beheld with silent awe by multitudes below!”

VI.

Breathing Ambition’s inward pray’r,

With eyes uplifted, Margaret stood,

And her pale brow and ebon hair

Gleam’d in the silver flood;

Quick mov’d her lips,—but word or sound

Broke not the quietness profound;

Like Sybil form of elder time

Weaving the dark portentous rhyme,

She stood—or them whose glance forbidden

Dares scan the things which Fate hath hidden!

VII.

Rouze! rouze, and listen!――for indeed

A distant bugle summons shrill,

While heavy hoofs of barded steed

The lessening pauses fill!—

“It comes, it comes!—the eventful hour!—

The messengers of Fate are nigh!—

They bring me vengeance, pomp, and pow’r

Or loss, defeat and misery!

VIII.

Come on! come on!—hark!—well I know

The note of Clifford’s bugle-horn!—

Yet boldly he was wont to blow—

Why speaks it now so faint and low,

Like voices of one forlorn?

Beshrew my fears! this toilsome day

May well excuse the languid blast;

Even Clifford’s strength must fain give way

To such a long contended fray;—

Yet—how the lingering minutes waste!—

I would he rode with Beaufort’s haste!”

IX.

Meanwhile, with heart which smote her side

As tho’ a passage it would free,

Along the dewy path she hied

To meet her destiny.

Lo! in the dim and distant glade

Two mailed knights advance,

Upon their helms the moonlight play’d,

And tipp’d each glittering lance!

Dismay’d, perceiv’d the Royal Dame

How heavily the horsemen came;

They came not as if wing’d elate

With message of triumphant Fate,

Yet nor as fugitives they came

Closed goaded at the heels by peril and by shame!

X.

Nearer the Queen approach’d; and now,

With faltering tongue, her greeting sent

When from his courser sinking low

The foremost rider bent.

’Twas Clifford.—To the grassy ground

Helpless he fell, outstretched and prone,

While from his bosom’s depth profound,

Like vaulted echo, heav’d an anguish-breathing
groan.

XI.

Young Lancaster, for it was he

By Cumbrian Clifford’s side who rode,

Alighted slow, while mournfully

His filial greeting he bestow’d;

“Oh, help me, Mother! loose the brace

Which closely binds the aventayle,

That o’er poor Clifford’s dewy face

May blow the cool night gale!”

The brace was clogg’d with sable gore,

Which bound the heavy burgonet,

And all the weed the Baron wore

With gory stains was wet:

XII.

But now they raise the drooping head

And throw the cumbrous casque aside,

When, with a look of wrath and dread,

Clifford his eye-lids open’d wide,

And “Hence! unthinking boy! he cried,

Hence! leave me to my fate, for what can harm
the dead!”

XIII.

“What thou, who in thy bosom bearest

Those gashes which at mine were aim’d!

’Tis then but for my life thou carest,

A life dishonour’d, stain’d, and sham’d!

No, hope it not! I’ll stay by thee,

While one red drop is in thy veins,

While one dim spark of life remains

To warm thy loyal heart, or glimmering in thine
eye!”

XV.

Quick from the ground Prince Edward rose,

With scorn and horror in his eyes,—

“And has he shed his blood for those

Who can desert him as he dies!

Oh, heaven forbid his closing ear

Those ill-requiting words should hear!

Like poison’d drops the ungrateful sound

Would fall upon his chilling heart,

And wake in every yawning wound

Stings that would reach his soul!—insufferable
smart!”

XVI.

With painful toil, the dying Knight

Half-rais’d from earth his heavy frame,

While thro’ the clouds that dimmed his sight

There shone a quick and transient light,

Like flash of meteor flame;

That rapid and expiring ray

Spoke what his tongue refused to say,—

It was the spirit’s farewell greeting

Ere from its mangled spoils it flew,

Then turn’d from earth and heav’nward fleeting,

Hasten’d to join a noble few

Bright souls of faithful friends, and vassals firm
and true!

XVII.

Down Clifford sank; and, as he fell

His armour rang against the ground!

It was the brave Lord’s funeral knell,

A dull and hollow sound!

Prince Edward clos’d the frozen mouth,

And clos’d the glaz’d and ghastly eyes;

The Queen, with anger and surprize,

Meanwhile, impatient, watch’d the youth

Perform the hasty obsequies:

Quick with his blood-stain’d brand he hew’d

The boughs which hung above his head,

And o’er the lifeless warrior strew’d,—

Then, looking on the corse, he said,

“Rude, rude, oh Clifford! is thy bed,

Tho’ gratitude and zeal thy humble grave-clothes
spread!”

XVIII.

The Queen, resentment and dismay

O’er each indignant feature gleaming,

Cried, “Prince, farewell!—I must away!

For thee, an if it please thee, stay

Like beadsman, till the morning dreaming

Over yon senseless clay!

I seek those living friends, who still

Can hear, and can perform my will!

Of feeble sire the feeble child,

Thou, idly loitering, mayst remain,

And like that sire so meek and mild,

Thou too, perchance, mayst not disdain

To wander o’er thy land, led in a rebel’s chain.”

XIX.

“Hush thee, my Mother! set we on!

Thy harsh rebuke inflames my grief!

Oh! chide not thus thy harass’d son,

And envy not the scatter’d leaf

Which thinly strews yon fallen Chief!

It was but little sure to give

To him who died that I might live!

Clifford beheld an archer aim—

Already had the arrow flown,

Towards my unguarded breast it came,

He flung himself between, and caught it in his
own!

XX.

Quick let us on—yon planet’s ray

Shall light us on our sorrowing way;

And grant, oh heaven! my failing strength

May serve me thro’ the forest’s length!

Zerbino, fare thee well! To day

Thy sides have bourne me gallantly;

But, gall’d and wounded in the fray,

Thou canst not aid me on my way,

And I perforce abandon thee!”

XXI.

Nigh his brave master’s lifeless corse

Outstretched lay Clifford’s barded horse,

As if the faithful beast had stay’d

His master’s latest need to aid,

Then, tir’d, he had laid him down to die,

Still waiting on his destiny!

XXII.

Grasping his spear in silent pride,

The Price before his mother strode,—

She little thought how down his side

A crimson torrent flow’d!

But Edward knew his mother’s heart,

And sternly bore the secret smart,

The anguish of his wounded breast

Beneath the bruising cuirass press’d;

He dar’d not hope woe’s sweet redress,

The balm of sorrowing tenderness:

The bursting dew upon his face

Bore witness to his silent pain,

Yet on he stalk’d in manly pace,

And deign’d not to complain,

While at each step, like darts of flame,

A thousand thrilling stings ran shivering thro’ his
frame.

XXIII.

Yet not alone did Edward smart;

For deep in Margaret’s swelling heart

Of wounded pride the venom’d fangs

Inflicted direr, deadlier pangs,

Pangs more corrosive and severe,

More fierce, more poignant and intense,

Than ever hostile sword or spear

Wak’d in the breast of innocence;

And now, too mighty to be borne,

Forth burst they in the words of enmity and
scorn!

XXIV.

“If frozen silence might avail

To hide this day’s o’erwhelming tale,

I would not ask thee for a story

Of foul defeat, and tarnish’d glory,

I would not ask thy tongue to trace

The record of thine own disgrace!

And yet, methinks, with sounding word,

’Twas that same tongue whose empty vaunt

Swore that thine own resistless sword

In heart of England’s isle our ruddy flow’r should
plant!

XXV.

Say! what are we, like outlaws vile

Wandering abandon’d and alone?

Art thou the heir of Britain’s isle?

Am I the partner of a throne?

Weak scion of a Monarch race,

Born to a lot thou canst not hold!

What! patient in thy deep disgrace,

Scar’d by Rebellion’s aspect bold,

Would’st thou resign the dangerous place?

Or I do rave, or I do dream,

Or twice ten thousand crested brows

Glitter’d in yester-morning’s beam;

They hurl’d defiance on my foes

And fearless rush’d into the strife,

Their bosoms heaving quick with loyalty and life!

XXVI.

Was it not so! and if it were,

Where are those twice ten thousand now?

And was it treachery or fear

That scatter’d them before the foe

Like the light sand when whirlwinds blow:

’Twas treason! Vile, dissembling race!

’Twas Edward’s guile! ’twas Warwick’s gold

That turn’d their boiling spirits cold,

And tempted them to their disgrace!

But let yon proud usurper tremble,—

For insecure he sits whose vassals can dissemble!”

XXVII.

Is there a wretch o’erspent with care,

Stung by neglect, or gall’d by scorn,

Or wrestling with the fiend Despair

Who goads him on with pungent thorn

To curse the hour when he was born?

Oh! let him for awhile arrest

The conflict of his stormy breast;

Oh! let him mark how virtue’s flame,

How courage firm, how zeal sincere,

Have nerv’d yon stripling’s tender frame

Of more than mortal pain the bitter pangs to
bear!

XXVIII.

“Traitors! Ye loyal, glorious dead

For us, who fell on Hexham’s plain,

In an ungrateful cause ye bled!

Oh! ye have died in vain!

The warm blood trickles down my side,

My heart with grief is torn and rent,

Yet still my spirit was unbent,

And every wound I had defied,

Save that which thro’ my soul a mother’s tongue
has sent!

XXIX.

Cold orb of night! thy rays are falling

Where England’s perish’d pride lies low,

Thy pale looks o’er the scene appalling

A ghastly lustre throw!

There, stretch’d along in hideous sleep,

Our thousands lie, a frozen heap!

Fast knit in loyalty and love,

Hard, hard and valiantly they strove,

Even while they felt Fate’s withering frown

On every effort looking down!

Thrice was the hand of death uprear’d,

Thrice ’gainst my breast the bow was bent,

Thrice bold Affection interfer’d

And seiz’d the boon for Edward meant!

Now heaven bestows the just award,

And human gratitude is spar’d!”

XXX.

This burst of generous wrath expended,

The wreck of Edward’s failing strength,

Passion with feebleness contended,

But soon the unequal contest ended,

And nature sank at length;

For as they left the sheltering dell

To tempt the wide and dreary plain,

Edward, subdu’d by toil and pain,

No more the conflict might maintain,—

He shudder’d, groan’d, and fell.

XXXI.

In Margaret’s fierce and stormy breast

A thousand warring passions strove,

Yet now, unbid, a stranger-guest

Dispers’d and silenc’d all the rest—

Thy voice, Maternal Love!

Ambition, Hatred, Vengeance wild,

Hot Ire, and frozen Pride were flown,

While gazing on her lifeless child,

On heaven she cried, in frenzied tone,

“Oh, save my gallant boy! oh, Edward! Oh my
son!”

XXXII.

Yet tho’ maternal softness stole,

With force resistless, o’er her soul;

Yet tho’ a tear, from anguish wrung,

Upon her burning eye-lid hung,

To aid her fainting boy she sprung!

The helm that crush’d his drooping brows

With hasty hand aside she throws,

And next the hauberk’s rigid clasp

Yields to the mother’s eager grasp;

Swift from his mangled breast she tore

The linen stiff with blackening gore,

The dew-embued grass she press’d

Against his burning, throbbing breast,

The trampled grass—small aid, I ween!

Yet in that hour of Anguish wild

’Twas all a mother and a Queen

Might yield a dying child!

XXXIII.

Now from the lofty arch of heaven

Had every lesser light withdrawn,

For in the distant east was given

The promise of the coming dawn;

A long faint line of saffron light

At first the morn’s arrival hinted,

Then, bursting glorious on the sight,

Day’s dazzling orb arising bright,

With gold the far off mountains tinted.

XXXIV.

Behold! o’er yonder eastern height

Day comes with roses on his brow!

False promiser! so gay and bright,

What deadly tidings on thy flight

To thousands bringest thou!

Where is thy vest of funeral grey?

Thy robe of mist, thy rain-drops? Where

The frequent, chill, and sullen tear?—

Oh, walk not in the pride of May

O’er the dire wreck of yesterday,

Extinguish’d hope, and strength, and life—

The refuse cold of human strife!

Bring shuddering winds, whose sobbing breath

And hollow sighs may sweep yon solemn scene
of death!

XXXV.

Still with Despair’s unnatural force,

The Queen supports the seeming corse,

In vain each eager care she tries,

No answering sign of life replies:—

“’Tis frozen silence all! she cries,—

Oh, now, inexorable Fate,

I feel, I feel thy conquering hate!

I yield!—a crownless Queen, a mother desolate!

XXXVI.

Yet thus it shall not be! she cries,

My child, my Edward shall not die!”

And the compassionating skies

Forgave the mother’s blasphemy.

A frantic glance around she threw

O’er the inhospitable plain,—

A dreary region met her view,

She look’d for help in vain!

Her gaze no low-roof’d hovel bless’d,

No track stetch’d o’er the waste by traveller’s
foot impress’d

XXXVII.

See, from the covert of the wood,

A grim, gaunt ruffian form advance!

Close by the unconscious Queen he stood,

Like prowling beast in wait for blood,

Watching his prey with hungry glance!

Rude harness, such as outlaws wear,

And desperate men who roam the waste,

(Children of havock and despair,)

His sinewy limbs encas’d:

On his hard brows, by toil embrown’d,

A cap of rusty iron frown’d;

The shaggy mass of raven hair,

Eye, rolling wild with reddening glare,

The lurking watch, the weapon fell,

Hard held, and often rais’d, the ruthless purpose
tell.

XXXVIII.

While Margaret felt beneath her grasp

Returning life’s tumultuous grasp,

Saw the breast heave, the eye-lids ope,

And hail’d the blissful dawn of Hope,

And hung in exstacy to trace

The faint bloom tinge the livid face;

Ah, then, how little did she think

How close she stood on ruin’s brink!

Nor warning voice, nor step foretold,

Till Danger grasp’d her in his hold!—

Turning she met in mute surprise,

The red and lurid glare shot from a ruffian’s
eyes!

XXXIX.

What spark, what gleam of hope was near

That hapless Lady’s lot to cheer;

She stood amid the wilderness

Forlorn in lonely wretchedness!

Gaunt strength and cruelty were nigh,

And Avarice mark’d, with burning eye,

The many colour’d gems that shone

Conspicuous on her costly zone!

She, at whose nod the nation bow’d,

Whose voice, like thunder, shook the crowd,—

Oh, dire reverse!—must she endure

To meet her fate from hand obscure!

Oh, must a robber’s glaive be dyed

With the imperial stream which feeds that bosom’s
pride!

XL.

Still firm the Royal Lady stood,

And calmly eyed the man of blood,

Strong in that panoply whose charm

Defies the meditated harm;

The strength that in the heart resides

The ruffian’s sinewy force derides!

The savage paus’d.—Dismay’d, he felt

Each nerve relax, each purpose melt;

Yet ’twas nor pity, nor remorse

That check’d him in his murd’rous course;

He dar’d not strike!—Queen Margaret’s gaze

In air the uplifted weapon stays!

Instinct within his vassal soul

Felt and obey’d the strange controul;

Trembling he stood, yet knew not why,

Oppress’d beneath the sovereign’s eye!

Oh, strife sublime!— of issues glorious!

’Tis mind, majestic mind, o’er brutal strength
victorious!

XLI.

The queen, with conscious triumph, saw

That deep dismay, that shuddering awe.

Oh! when a band of crested lords

Engirt her with protecting swords,

And when on her despotic breath

Hung fame and life, or shame and death,

’Twas Fortune’s gift! The weak and vain,

The pamper’d minions of whose train,

As often as the great and bold

The pow’r dispensing sceptre hold:

But now, an exile from the throne,

Wandering abandon’d and alone,

She felt the triumph was her own!

She stood as if the abject band

Still waited on her dread command,

And, waving her imperial hand,

With lofty look the robber eyed,

And in a tone of temper’d pride,

“Thou com’st in happy time! save thou thy
Prince!” she cried

XLII.

Him, the abborr’d, detested, loath’d,

Whom Crime in all her terrors cloth’d,—

Was it on him, that, unappall’d,

For aid a helpless woman call’d!

To him! a murderer gaunt and grim!

Those trusting, social words to him!

“Aid thou thy Prince!”— how strange, how
new,

How sweet, how powerful the appeal!

Along each startled nerve it flew

And trembled in his heart of steel!

“Give me the Prince!—thro’ flood and fire,

Tho’ men and devils should conspire,

This sinewy arm and trusty blade,

Against opposing worlds, thee and thy boy shall
aid!”

XLIII.

Swift as the generous promise past,

Upon the scatter’d arms he sprung,—

The glittering fragments, heap’d in haste,

On the young warrior’s spear he hung,

And o’er his giant shoulders flung.

The Prince, tho’ life began to speak

In his quick pulse and changing cheek,

Yet saw not, heard not;—when his waist

A rugged, nervous arm embrac’d,

He dream’d his corselet’s iron clasp

Confin’d him with uneasy grasp,

And as the vigorous robber strode,

Scarce bending with his various load,

He marvell’d that his drowsy steed

Press’d forward with no hotter speed!

XLIV.

The Queen, —her courage did not swerve

Tho’ anguish throbb’d in every nerve!

Fatigue, disaster, and affright

Had prov’d her thro’ that live-long night,—

Her frame was woman’s,— but her soul

Contemn’d the body’s weak controul!

The fever’s fire was in her blood,

The cold drop on her temples stood,

Her long, dishevell’d, raven hair

Stream’d wild along the morning air,

Her pale and haggard cheek, her eye

Full of strange light,—her garb forlorn

Amid the tangled forest torn,—

All told superior misery!

XLV.

Along the moorland, drear and wild,

Silent their weary path they hold;

In vain the summer sunshine smil’d

Upon the grim and sullen wold,

O’er whose brown waste no harvests bloom,

Save where the golden-crested broom

Or purple heath-flower break the gloom.

Silent they crossed the lonely fell,

Silent the matted ling they press’d,

No cheering object rose to tell—

Here, wanderers, ye may rest!

XLVI.

All that a woman might abide

Had that unshrinking Lady tried;—

She falter’d now—her dizzy sense

Half yielding to the toil intense,

Gasping, she spake, “Oh, tell me, friend,

Of this our weary path when shall we reach the
end?”

XLVII.

The robber, turning to reply,

Beheld the Queen with heedful eye;

By the long rugged journey worn

Her sandals slight were rent and torn;

Still as she trod, the prickly gorse

Check’d with its stings her painful course;

Those royal feet, once fenc’d with care,

Are now unshielded, bleeding, bare,

While at each step the poignant smart

Rush’d shivering to her stubborn heart!

The soften’d savage, in a tone

Till then to his rough tongue unknown,

The much-enduring Queen address’d,

“Bear yet a little while, and, Lady, thou shalt rest.

XLVIII.

Fear not,—a few hard moments more,

One struggle, and thy toils are o’er!

Where yon blue cloud of smoke ascends,

The wide and barren moorland ends,

That smoke behind its wavering veil

Hides the fair opening of the dale.

Beshrew my heart! right glad am I

That shelter and repose are nigh,

For well I wot, thy sinking frame

Would soon thy dauntless spirit shame,

Tho’ ’twere as hardy, tough, and brave,

As e’er was bred in outlaw’s cave!”

XLIX.

As nigh they drew, the fragrant smoke

Threw round their forms its filmy cloak,

Or soar’d, by wanton breeze upborne,

In curling incense to the morn;

The frequent bleat, the tinkling bell,

Of shepherd’s cur the chiding yell;

The beaten path of mild descent

Which from the savage moorland bent,

The gale which came with odours fraught

Late stolen from some bloomy thorn,—

All these a mingled message brought

Of comfort to the heart forlorn!

Bless’d message! e’en the drooping Queen

Half smil’d as she look’d round to hail the softening
scene!

L.

Screen’d from the passing traveller’s gaze

And shelter’d from the noontide blaze,

Like hermit’s cell, or Sybil’s grot,

Nestled in shade the peasant’s cot;

Before its door an aged dame

Carol’d a song of rustic frame,

And while beside her cow she bent,

And fill’d, intent, the cleanly pail,

The morning music of content

Was echoed thro’ the tiny vale,—

A clownish ditty—nor the tongue

Less rude and tuneless than the song;

And yet that uncouth strain was fraught

With music ne’er by minstrel taught:

What skill, what cunning may impart,

What genius bright, or toilsome art,

The pure, brisk, genuine glee, fresh from a lightsome
heart!

LI.

Between her task and song, the dame

Wist not that stranger-footsteps came;

Now she would pause, with fond caress,

Her mute companion to address,

And now resume her simple strain

And bid the valley ring again,

While chanticleer, with rosy crest,

With neck erect and golden breast,

Swelling and strutting by her side,

Ruffled his plumes, in conscious pride,

And ever and anon in the shrill descant vied.

LIII.

Still onward with his precious load,

The stout, unbending Rudolph strode,

And stood the unlatch’d door beside

Ere his dread form Dame Maudlin spied;

With eye-lids wide and open mouth,

Breathless she eyed her guest uncouth,

Then sudden on the wind she sent,

In echoing cries, her loud lament,

And every saint in heaven implor’d

To save her from the ruffian’s sword;

On Rudolph’s ear the cry was lost,

Relentless, he the threshold cross’d,

Push’d wide the half-consenting door,

And, glad his toilsome task was o’er,

Laid his half-conscious charge upon the rushstrewn
floor.

LIV.

Meanwhile the dame’s bewilder’d eye

Upon the speechless Margaret fell,

Fix’d grew her gaze, and suddenly

Her tongue gave o’er its boist’rous cry

As bound by wizard spell!

The stranger’s wild and awful glance

Held her awhile in helpless trance,

The pail abandon’d, half o’erturn’d

Shedding its milky treasure stood;—

The Queen in vain no longer yearn’d,

But springing towards the wasting flood,

Bath’d deep her parching lip, and cool’d her
boiling blood!

LV.

Ere yet the eager Queen forbore

The sweetest draught she e’er had tasted,

Lo! Rudolph from the cottage door

With glad and urgent tidings hasted!

“The boy revives!—no more he lies

With filmy, half-extinguish’d eyes!

Haste, Lady, haste! with doubtful gaze

He scans my rugged visage o’er,

And wildly towards the open door

His rapid glance impatient strays!

Hark! he cries ‘Mother!’ Lady, hear!

I’ll speed and tell him thou art near!”

He paus’d not, and, with lighten’d breast,

The Queen on his swift footstep press’d

And pass’d the humble gate, an uninvited guest.

LVI.

The Prince, tho’ weak, to speech and sense

By kindly nutriment restor’d,

With many a quick yet broken word,

Gazing around in dark suspense,

The changes of his fate explor’d:—

“How came we here? Where have we been?

What means this strange, unwonted scene?

What evil chance has fallen, that I

Outstretched, unarmed, and bleeding lie?

Save thee, my Mother, all is strange!

Nay, while I gaze, methinks e’en thou,

Partaking in the general change,

Bend’st on thy son an alter’d brow!

Whence comes it?”—while he spake, the smart

Of festering wound thrill’d to his heart,

As ’twould the poignant truth in all its force impart!

LVII.

Hexham’s red field and all its woes

Swift to his shuddering fancy rose;

He heard the foe’s insulting shout,

He saw the battle’s deadly rout;

The baffled struggles of the fight,

The foul defeat, the mingled flight,—

All rush’d upon his brain, and swam before his
sight!

LVIII.

No longer pours his faltering tongue

Of questions wild a hurrying throng,

Memory had told him of the fall

Of crested fame, of hope, of all!

A tear from each clos’d eye-lip gush’d,

In silence deep his voice was hush’d,

Save when the workings of his soul

Break loose—too restless for controul;

Then, but half heard, mid smothering sighs—

“Lost, lost!” from his wan lips in broken murmur
dies!

LIX.

That roof of thatch had often rung

With rustic carol stoutly sung,

The glee-inspiring rebeck there

Of minstrel, stray’d from wake or fair;

The simple, soft, complaining strain

From rustic reed of love-lorn swain,

The cheerful sound of neighbour’s greeting.

The bagpipe’s hum at merry-meeting

When dark Yule-tide had clos’d the door Open note Back to note

Against the rattling tempest’s roar;

The blazing, crackling log, the laughing

Of merry souls the Yule-cup quaffing;

The welcome wild of nymph and swain

When fragrant May is come again,—

Such din, unknown to statelier halls,

Had often rock’d its humble walls

But the heart-wasting sighs of care,

Till Greatness trod its floor, had never echoed
there!

LX.

Maudlin at length dismiss’d her fear,

And with unshrinking step drew near;

No whisper to her thought reveal’d

What guests her tiny cottage held,

Nought knew she, but that grief and care

And weariness had shelter’d there;

Full little did she dream, I ween,

Of England’s heir, and England’s Queen!

And yet, in Margaret’s form, the eye

Of skill’d observance might espy

Midst that forlorn and woeful change,

A motley mingling, sad and strange,

Of grandeur and of misery!

LXI.

Still round her waist, a costly zone,

The Orient’s dazzling produce, shone,

Which scarce the tatter’d robe confined,

Whose loose shreds wav’d with every wind;

Her matted, long, unbraided hair,

Her wounded feet, unshod and bare,

E’en these, some glittering toys display,

Sad remnants of a better day!

Idly they shine! their gleam abhorr’d

But mocks with ghastly smile the fortunes they
record!

LXII.

Dame Maudlin, now no more unseen,

With rustic grace salutes the Queen,—

“Good folk! altho’ ye crave it not,

I bid ye welcome to my cot!

Belike, had my old man been nigh

He might have blam’d your courtesy,—

Well, well! mayhap your piteous plight

Had put good manners out of sight:

Ah me! what cruel caitiff’s sword

Yon strippling’s milk-white breast has gor’d:

Alack! how like a drooping flow’r

Too rudely dash’d by summer show’r,

He hangs his pretty head! poor youth!

Oh! ’tis a ruthless deed! a dismal sight in sooth!

LXIII.

Nay, grieve not, Lady! grieve not so!

For tho’ thou dost not sigh nor speak,

A tear is drying on thy cheek,

And, by thy trembling lip, I know,

Untold, thy bosom teems with woe!

Good Lady! be of better cheer!

Old Oswald will anon be here;

With him a shepherd lad, who knows

Each herb that in our meadows grows;

From humblest weeds his skill produces

Kind balms, and anguish-healing juices;

He says the smallest blossom’s bell

Bears treasure in its secret cell,

Nor talks he idly,—for in sooth

His deed has often vouch’d his truth!

The grieve not, Lady, thus! Gerald shall cure
the youth.”

LXIV.

Just then, the writhing Prince confest

What anguish stung his wounded breast;

His feverish starts and twisted brows

Betray his sharp and arrowy throes;

Rudolph, impatient, fiery, bold,

Brook’d not the suffering Prince’s pain,

His fierce eyes on the dame he roll’d—

“Do thou this drooping boy sustain,

Rudolph shall fly himself and seek the skillful
swain.”

LXV.

Quick rising, he in haste resign’d

His charge to Maudlin’s gentler care,

Whose bosom, honest, warm, and kind,

Supported England’s royal heir!

The mild caress, the cautious hand

That chaf’d his temples damp and faint,

Consoling whispers, soft and bland,

That hush’d, yet pitied his complaint,—

All spoke the tender care, I ween,

Of one who had a mother been.

LXVI.

With rocking, lulling, soothing motion,

Like the calm swell of unvex’d ocean,

Or beared corn that waves beneath

The warm west wind’s caressing breath,

And song monotonous, whose strain

Ne’er hush’d a cradled babe in vain,

Did Maudlin still the sufferer’s pain;

Lo! Edward yields!—the gentle spell,

Resistless, on his senses fell,

Unconsciously each closing eye

The kind compulsion own’d of Maudlin’s lullaby.

LXVII.

And not alone o’er Edward’s eyes

The silent friend of sorrow crept,

Margaret forgot her miseries,

And on the scatter’d rushes slept!

Subdued, she dropt her royal head

Upon her hard uncurtain’d bed!

Unseemly couch!—the cottage floor

Trod by the foot of rustic boor!

Ambition! here thy votaries lead,

Thy dazzled, flatter’d, pamper’d train,

The slaves who in thy pageants tread,

The proud, the sanguine, and the vain!

Oh, bid then bend the aspiring eye

Low as the cottage floor, where lie

Yon victims of thy flattery!

LXVIII.

Well pleas’d, the hospitable crone

Still murmur’d on her drowsy song,

Till, hark! she listens! ’tis the tone

Of the old shepherd’s grumbling tongue,

A churl in speech, his rugged growl

Belied a not ungentle soul;

No smiling promiser was he,

In rough, ill-natur’d phrase he dealt,

While, all unseen, soft sympathy

Within his bosom dwelt!

Asham’d, he harbour’d, unconfest,

In rude disguise, the lurking guest;

Few words, I ween, to friends or foes

Did honest Oswald give, and right uncivil those.

LXIX.

But now, with real discord fraught,

The muttering carl his cottage sought;

Tho’ blunt himself, he brook’d but ill

The tongue of Rudolph, blunter still,

Who chid him, as with forc’d consent

Homeward with lagging pace he went;

Nor did his moody muttering cease

Till, as he reach’d his cottage door,

Dame Maudlin pointed to the floor,

And beckon’d to be still, and softly whisper’d
“Peace!”

LXX.

Swift at the sight the gloomy frown

From his relaxing brow was chas’d,

Appeas’d and mute, the careful clown

Paus’d at the door, and bending down,

His heavy clattering shoon unbrac’d:

Ah! many a one mid lordlings bred

From that rude swain a hint might borrow,

With gentle footsteps how to tread

Beside the restless couch of sorrow!

And, lo! again the latch is rais’d

By him whose skill Dame Maudlin prais’d!

His hands, his cap, his bosom bore

The precious vegetable store;

The breeze his glossy hair had blown

In masses o’er his cheek of brown,

A cheek so tawny you might deem

Had sprung from India’s sultry land,

Or that from Gypsey’s roving band

Some chance had snatch’d him, for, in sooth,

You’d seldom see a browner youth;

Yet o’er that cheek of dusky hue,

His eyes of melancholy blue

A bright yet trembling lustre threw:

Seldom of smiles the sparkling grace

O’erdimpled Gerald’s cloudy face,

But if some favourite vision stole,

In bright surprise, upon his soul,

By transient gladness if beguil’d,

Gerald forgot to grieve, and smil’d,

Not heaven’s own beam, when morning wakes

Amid the misty skies, with lovelier radiance
breaks!

LXXII.

On tiptoe Gerald lightly crept

To where the Royal Mother slept,

And of green rushes, featly laid,

And heap’d with care, a pillow made;

With noiseless, unobtrusive tread

He glided round the lowly bed,

And smooth’d its ruggedness,—and wept

To think how hard the Lady slept,

To think that, haply, ne’er before

That head had press’d a cottage floor.

LXXIII.

Yet gave he not the moments brief

To idle sighs and thriftless grief,

His was a better task, —he knew

To pity, and to succour too;

Now with selective care he chose,

Amid his blooming fragrant heap,

Herbs, meet the burning wound to steep,

And soothe and lull its angry throes;

And from the cowslip’s bell he drew

A gentle, sleep-compelling dew,

For every flower and leaf he bruis’d

Some bless’d and potent juice beneath his hand
effus’d.

LXXIV.

While thus his kindly task he plied,

He sate the cottage door beside,

Where from his toil no jarring sound

Might reach the slumb’rers;—he had found,

Child as he was, that Sorrow’s breast

By sleep’s kind hand is seldom press’d

But if, perchance, it come—how welcome is the
guest!

LXXV.

Of life poor Gerald little knew;

That little, grief had clouded o’er,

When from the troublous world he drew

His transient yet affrighted view,

And sought to know no more!

Fain like the heath-flower would he die,

The heath-flower on its lonely stalk,

Which decks the reckless peasant’s walk,

Then withers in obscurity!

LXXVI.

Still Gerald, as the weed he bruis’d,

Upon the stranger’s fortune mus’d,

Or pondering yet on visions flown

Mingled their sorrows with his own,

When from old Oswald’s calm abode,

With summons loud, grim Rudolph strode

“Bestir thee, urchin! we would try

The wonders of thy ministry;

But, if thou fail, the idle boast

Full dear that stripling form shall cost!

Know, if thou hast not happy speed,

Rudolph shall bid thee share the meed

Of yonder crush’d and bruised weed!”

Poor Gerald started, half-afraid,

As from his task he rose, and hastily obey’d.

LXXVII.

That Lady, o’er whose silent face,

Stretch’d as she lay on humble bed,

An awful, stern, imperial grace

E’en mid her slumbers spread,

Now met the trembling youth,—her air

Mix’d greeting kind with frowning care,

The despot’s nod and suppliant’s pray’r:

For thus her varying brow confest

How pride and fortune strove within her haughty
breast.

LXXVIII.

Her hapless, friendless, pow’rless lot

One sanguine moment was forgot;

She clasp’d her hands:—“Oh! canst thou
stay

That spirit ere it flits away!

Heal him! and to thy utmost hope,

Thy wildest wish, give range and scope!

Turn o’er thy thoughts, and if thy breast

Yearn for some blessing unpossest,—

Fear not!—restore my suffering child,

And never sigh again o’er visions unfulfill’d!”

LXXIX.

To brutal threat, or empty strain

Of promise, liberal yet vain,

Alike in silence Gerald listen’d;

But when his timid eyes he rais’d

And on the drooping Edward gaz’d,

A tear upon his eye-lash glisten’d;

“Yes, I will heal him!— for I feel,

By angels sent, the power to heal!

Unbrib’d, unforc’d it comes!—’tis given,

A free a gracious boon from heaven!”

LXXX.

With trembling care the swain unbound

(Unfelt his hand) the angry wound,

Then light the soothing unguent press’d

Upon the torn and throbbing breast;

(The fingers of that hand so brown

Were soft as fleecy eider-down,

And small, as if some fairy sprite

Had lent them to the boy in spite;)

That task completed, Gerald brought,

From cowslips press’d, the drowsy draught,

And whispering low, the Prince besought

To taste the kind oblivious bowl,

And bathe in dewy sleep his vex’d and restless
soul.

LXXXI.

The passive Prince the sleep-juice drank,

Then, feebly, rais’d his eyes to thank

The being, whose benignant art

Had calm’d his grief and lull’d his smart,

Whose gentle hand had charm’d to rest

The stings which fester’d in his breast,

Whose voice had warbled on his ear

Such music as ’twas heaven to hear!

He rais’d his eyes ’twixt hope and fear,—

Hope,—that some vision bright and fair

Stood nigh and look’d upon his care;

And fear,—lest to his languid thought

Fancy some formless dream had brought;—

He lifts, he rolls his anxious eyes

With wild research and mute suprize,

Then from the sun-burnt shepherd lad

Turns them in haste away, bewilder’d, vex’d and
sad!

LXXXII.

Yet Gerald miss’d the cloudy look,

While from a dark and distant nook

An old half-stringed harp he took,

Whose plight, neglected and forlorn,

Full well its former story told,

Whilom thro’ many a village borne

By vagrant minstrel, blind and old,

Now rested from his toil beneath the churchyard
mould.

LXXXIII.

Whence Gerald had the skill to bring

Such music from the time-worn string,

Why from its wreck’d and crazy frame

Such wild yet potent warbling came,

I know not!—sad, yet sweet it fell,

Till every breast began to swell,

And e’en o’er Rudolph’s rugged soul

All unawares the influence stole;—

Forth from the cot he rush’d awhile,

Mistrustful of the urchin’s guile,

Deeming that elfin hands alone

Had pow’r to wake that thrilling tone,

Margaret, on whom Dame Maudlin’s care

Officious press’d her rustic fare,

Started, and gaz’d upon the swain,

Then on his broken harp, and marvell’d at the
strain.

LXXXIV.

The sun has faded in the west,

And now the blackbird seeks his nest,

The owlet sails on heavy wing,

The bat flits by with restless swing,

And simple folk are gone to rest;

The spider’s dull unvarying tick,

Sad token for the old and sick!

The cricket’s chirrup, ceaseless, shrill,

The watch-dog’s howl, or, ruder still,

The good-man’s snore, whose drone profound

The cottage fills;—the tedious sound

Of gnats and night-flies buzzing round

Ceas’d not;—yet deep, unconscious rest

Each cottage inmate’s eye-lids press’d,

Save Edward, who, in transient doze,

At times, his thrilling pangs would lose,

Or the brown shepherd-boy, who chose,

Thro’ the dark hours, to watch and wake

For that unhappy stranger’s sake.

LXXXV.

Without, beneath a beech-tree’s shade,

Rudolph his giant limbs had laid,

On the rude earth’s unpillow’d bed,

Reckless, he flung his hardy head,

As thoughtless of to-morrow’s tide

As the fierce watch-dog by his side.

And now, good night! for I would fain,

Like them, forget my task awhile,

And when the morn begins to smile,

And when the birds resume their strain,

I’ll join the choir betimes and wake the lyre
again!

I.

Oh no! tho’ every Muse but mine

Shall follow yonder plumed train,

Led by a victor, young and vain,

Yet must a nobler task be thine!

Thou shalt not follow in the crowd

Which tracks the footsteps of the proud!

Fear not, my Muse! Enow there be

To dog the heels of Victory!

There want not tongues to mingle praise

With every shout success can raise!

We’ll sit apart from yonder throng,

And sing our unchorus’d song!

What shall the burthen be? We’ll sing,

While yet our lyre retains a string,

The brave yet persecuted form

Which fronts the bursting cloud and struggles
with the storm.

II.

Of power uprooted from its base,

And driven by whirlwinds from its place;

Of that stern smile by greatness worn

Thro’ each reverse, in Fortune’s scorn;

Of those anointed ones, whose eyes

Have look’d on all beneath the skies.

Now high uprais’d on gilded throne,

Now wandering, wretched and alone,—

Still Royal, while the soul defies

Misfortune’s worst indignities!

And, when the mighty spirit bends,

And, when at last the struggle ends,

When adverse stars can vex no more,

And Death proclaims the contest o’er,

When sorrow quits them in the grave,

We’ll raise our loudest strain to save

All that their fate has left—the memory of the
brave!

III.

’Tis day! warm, ruddy, sparkling day!

Lo! night and drowsiness are fled,

The morn has cast her veil away,

And, smiling, doff’d her mantle grey

For robes of orient red!

And now the goodman wields his flail,

And Maudlin seeks her cleanly pail,

Or scatters to the feather’d brood,

Which round her flock, their crumbled food:

Is there a living thing, whose eye

Beholds yon bright orb sullenly?

Lo! even the rude, unreasoning brute

Spontaneous pays his tribute mute!

Man only,—man’s averted eye

Dares view that bright orb sullenly!

He scorns to share the general glee,

And spurns the present bliss, pondering on things
to be!

IV.

With those whose slumbers earliest fled,

Queen Margaret started from the bed,

Where careful, restless, irksome dreams

Of deep resolves, and wond’rous schemes,

Had troubled sleep’s oblivious calm,

And stolen half its blessed balm;

With slight and unobservant eye

She pass’d in haste Dame Maudlin by,

Regardless of her courtesy,

But with relaxing brow she spied

Rudolph, her grim and fearful guide,

And with augmented speed she hasten’d to his
side.

V.

The bloodhound darting on his prey

Checks when his master bids him stay,

Crouches and cow’rs at his command,

And licks with gory tongue his hand:

Rudolph, the forest’s ruffian child,

As shaggy bloodhound fierce and wild,

Of lion heart and iron frame,

Beneath Queen Margaret’s eye was tame,

And by mysterious impulse sway’d,

In unseen fetters held, he listen’d and obey’d!

VI.

Whilst he in mute observance stood,

The Queen her royal will reveal’d:—

“Cross thou, with speed, yon hallow’d wood,

And hie to Hexham’s bloody field,

And when thou stand’st amid my foes

Let not thine ear its office lose!

Gain all thou may’st by craft or heed,

Then hither hie thee back with speed;

Learn, if thou can’st, what friends are left,

That we may hope in them, and mourn for those
bereft.

VII.

Now mark me, Rudolph! and her eye

Kindled with conscious majesty,—

I fear thee not! To thee I trust

Hope, empire, life, and dignity!

Thy truth may save,—thy perfidy

Will lay them in the dust!

Save or betray— the choice is thine!

The ruin of a Royal Line

Is in thine hand! A traitor’s blow

Has often laid the mighty low,

And many a monarch has been sold

To quench a vassal’s thirst for gold!

Now, Rudolph, hasten! If thy breast

May wrestle with the potent test,

Then Heaven vouchsafe thee happy speed,

And may no adverse chance thy wish’d return
impede!”

VIII.

Rudolph’s bent brows and reddening eye,

And blanching cheek, at first reply,

Sternly he view’d the Queen awhile,

Then mutter’d deep, with mingled smile,

In moody accent low and hoarse,

“I hate the coward ways of guile!

My weapon and my law is force!

Lord of the desert,— proud and free,

What need have I of treachery?

Short space shall prove me false or true!”

Then up the narrow path he flew;

For howsoe’er his will was bent,

The deed swift follow’d the intent,

And, rapid as the sweeping wind,

Resolv’d, he never paus’d to breathe, or look behind.

IX.

Methinks ’twere tedious to relate

What rustic cares the day divide,

How, with a distaff at her side,

Watching the Prince, Dame Maudlin sate,

Or how she bustled to prepare,

With much ado, her cottage fare;

Oswald, with murmuring discontent,

Off to his lonely labours went,

For sleep had stol’n, in soft surprize,

On the brown sheep-boy’s heavy eyes.

X.

The youthful Prince, whose rouzing sense

Breaks thro’ the vapour chill and dense

Which sorrow, wearriness, and pain

Have rais’d to cloud his dizzy brain,

Now feels the deep in inward smart

That rankled in his wounded heart

Relenting; for the sunny gleams

Of smiling, healing Hope have visited his
dreams!

XI.

And now he talk’d in accents cheering,

Of rallying friends, and prospects clearing,

Of hosts who waited but to hear

Once more his trumpet’s brazen sound,

To swarm with sword, and targe, and spear,

His banner-tree around!

Of many a heart that panted yet

To serve the true Plantagenet!

XII.

Now with a chieftain’s pride he dwells,

While high his gallant bosom swells,

Upon the struggle brave and strong,

Tho’ fruitless, of his loyal throng:

“Three times did valiant John de Vere, Open note Back to note

E’en mid the conflux of his foes,

Rest panting on his glory spear

And half unhelm his glowing brows,

Renewing then his bold career,

And plunging headlong mid the crowd,

With thundering shout he cried aloud,

‘For Oxford! and for Lancaster!’

Yet much I fear that orb so bright

Shines not to gild a future fight!

XIII.

The brave Lord Roos,— I saw him ride

With gore from spur to baldric dyed,

And his own veins the stream supplied;

When death was busy at his heart

And seem’d to warn him to give o’er,

Feebly he flung another dart

And rais’d his arm for one stroke more,

E’en then his foaming, smarting steed

Rush’d onward with ungovern’d speed,

By many a galling arrow stung,

And mid the battling hosts the lifeless warrior
flung!

XIV.

Clifford!—but no, my feeble tongue

Would do that matchless soldier wrong!

Pride of our chivalry! if e’er

Again this tarnish’d crest of mine,

If e’er this foil’d and blunted spear

Shall glitter mid the embattled line,

Then, from thy clouds look down, and see

If Edward’s soul remembers thee!

XV.

Twice sunder’d mid the mingling strife,

Borne back by the impetuous tide,

That guardian of his Prince’s life

Was hurried struggling from my side!

Thro’ Hastings’ iron lines we cleft,

But soon again the column clos’d,

And I amid the foe was left

Alone to hatred’s storm expos’d,

And then it was, with lance in rest,

Like the rough cataract in its course,

Lord Hastings rush’d upon my breast

And dash’d me wounded from my horse;

Trampled and stunn’d and bruis’d I lay,

And life seem’d ebbing fast away,

When Hastings from his courser sprung

And o’er his baffled victim hung,

And shew’d his glittering glaive, and cried—

‘Now beg thy forfeit life, or this atones thy
pride!’

XVI.

‘My life! oh, never! I was born

To hold dishonour’d life in scorn!’

I said, and swift the shining knife

Struck at the panting seat of life!

Yet then, as if by scorpion stung,

Back from his prey the Baron sprung,

His helm was cleft, and from his brow

A purple stream began to flow;

Staggering, dismay’d, he backward shrank

Or ere his thirsty weapon drank

The life-blood of his prostrate foe!

As rapid as electric flame

Shot from a summer cloud th’ unlook’d for rescue
came!

XVII.

Scarce knew I, — for my dizzy brain

Rock’d like some steeple’s restless vane,—

If friend or foeman grasp’d me round

And snatch’d me from the gory ground,

When, looking up, a stranger Knight

In sable harness met my sight;

‘Rash Prince!’ he cried, ‘one moment more,

And Lancaster’s last hope was o’er,

And all our blood, and all our pain,

And all our struggles render’d vain!

Think what a noble game we play,

Nor fling a nation’s hopes away!’

Then lifting high his conquering arm,

Wild as the blast, he swept amid the rebel
swarm!

XVIII.

Yet oft, on that disastrous day,

I saw his black plume waving high,

Or thro’ his visor met the ray

Which lighten’d from his eagle eye,

When friends and foes, a mingling host,

In horrid conflict, strove at last,

Or ere we felt that all was lost

And yielded to the whirling blast,

Wherever thickest beat the storm

I saw his tall majestic form,

And to the last I heard him cry—

‘Plantagenet and Victory!’”

XIX.

Day wan’d ere Edward’s tale was done,

Yet Margaret still was bent to hear,

She mark’d not the declining sun

While still with pleas’d and greedy ear

She hung upon his accents dear;

Again her eye with hope is bright,

“Why! let the coward heart despair!

Tho’ baffled in th’ unequal fight,

Sudden we’ll rise with tenfold might

Again yon rebel chief to dare,

Yon gewgaw king, who, for an hour,

May sport him with his borrow’d pow’r,

Till, headlong from his dizzy seat,

One sweeping blast shall lay the pageant at our
feet!”

XX.

Maudlin, in homely cares immers’d,

Now started, trembling and amaz’d,

And on the awful stranger gaz’d

As from her lip the menace burst,

Half-doubting lest its import dread

Might threat her unoffending head;

With faltering speech she had address’d,

And suppliant act, her stormy guest,

But Gerald to his lip the warning finger press’d.

XXI.

The good old dame, tho’ sore amaz’d,

In silence join’d her broken thread,

She deem’d her guest by sorrow craz’d,

And pity check’d the transient dread:

Twilight was falling,—Maudlin’s eye

Intently watch’d the cottage door,

For ever, as the night drew nigh,

She look’d for Oswald from the moor:

The weary Prince, his story done,

Now turns himself to mild repose,

The Queen bends musing o’er her son,

And o’er the silent group the evening shadows
close.

XXII.

How still, how hush’d, how calm the scene

Close rapt in evening’s dusky veil!

And yet, I wot, that haunt serene,

The cry of terror shall assail

Ere the moon rises on the dale!

Greatness is there;—where she abides,

There sudden danger lurking hides,

And rustic safety shuddering flies,

Scar’d by the meteor beams she scatters from
her eyes.

XXIII.

Thrice to the door the good old dame

With gentle pace on tiptoe crept

(Mindful of those who mus’d or slept,)

To see if yet old Oswald came,

But all was still—when on her ear

An unexpected sound was borne

Of clattering hoofs, which echoed near;

Now loud and hoarse a brazen horn

Fill’d all the vale!—In dread surprize

Breathless and wild, and pale, to warn her guests
she hies!

XXIV.

It needed not,—that summons dread

Through Margaret’s heart already thrill’d;

A captive desperate and wild,

She saw the snares around her spread,

And heard the hunter’s hated cry

Proclaim triumphant treachery!

Inly she groan’d, “Betray’d! betray’d!”

Then springing on the Prince’s spear,

(Beside his couch recumbent laid,)

Nought by the massive weight dismay’d,

Unaw’d, uncheck’d by woman’s fear,

To meet the danger ere it came

Impetuous from the cot forth rush’d the Royal
Dame.

XXV.

Sleep’s heavy, dull, unbroken sway

Upon the Prince’s eye-lids lay,

And Gerald, who, with trembling heart,

Had seen the warlike Queen depart,

Now call’d on heaven for wit and power

To save from harm that faded flower,

That sweet, yet blighted rose, which lay

Helpless and prone in ruin’s way!

The hope, the generous hope to save,

Had made the timid stripling brave,

Nor pondering long in vain he sought

The helpful and redeeming thought,—

Of Edward’s face the ghastly hue,

Those slumbers, frozen, still, and deep,

All, all, a faithful picture drew

Of tranquil Death’s unwaking sleep!

And now, on Edward’s humble bed

Was many a mourning symbol spread,

And flowers and herbs were scatter’d there

Like offerings on the village bier;

School’d to assist the pious guile,

Dame Maudlin wept and wail’d the while,

And next, from Gerald’s harp the sound,

Solemn and sad, of dirge profound,

Hymning the passing soul, was heard to float
around.

XXVI.

Gerald, with anxious, sickening heart,

Unequal pulse, and sudden start,

Now sends the mournful strain on high,

Now stops, and listens fearfully!

Soon must the dread suspense be o’er;—

Advancing slow, the ponderous sound

Of armed footsteps smites the ground,

And now they pause beside the door!

The latch uplifts, and lo! the Queen!

For now the bright and silvery sheen

Of the late risen moon illumines all the scene.

XXVII.

With cautious step and backward glance,

Leaning on Edward’s glittering lance,

Behold the Royal Dame advance!

But not alone—A stranger Knight

Press’d after; on his lofty brows

The thick and sable plumage flows,

O’er his tall form the hue of night

Spreads darkness;—cognizance, nor crest,

Nor blazon bears he, but his breast

A raven scarf o’ershades,—from brow to heel,

From spur to helm, the knight is clad in sable
steel!

XXVIII.

As Margaret view’d the alter’d scene,

And heard old Maudlin’s funeral wail,

And Geralds’s mourning harp,— the Queen,

Struck to the heart, stood mute and pale!

What might she think? Had Death been there,

And all her fairest hopes destroy’d?

And had he left that casket bare,

Plunder’d, and treasureless, and void?

Silent the sable Knight survey’d

The couch where England’s heir was laid,

Then starting from the gaze intent,

Beside the bed his knee he bent,

And gave the struggling sorrow vent:

XXIX.

“Oh, thou cold heap of human clay!

Extinguish’d taper!— Thou being gone

’Tis time to fling the steel away!

The work of blood is done!—

For thee, thou fragile, transient thing,

Thou silent, pale, and senseless corse,

For thee I bear of keen remorse

The never-dying sting!—

Was it for this a brother’s blood

Pour’d at my feet the horrid flood

And all my guilty hand and shuddering soul imbued?”

XXX.

Poor Gerald on the Royal Dame

His anxious, timid glances cast,

All trembling, doubting, and aghast;

Now fear’d he guile, now shrank from blame,

And sore repenting he beheld

What pangs the mother’s bosom swell’d;

But Maudlin could no more abide

That solemn scene of silent woe,

Her kindly tears began to flow,

And sobbing, to the Queen she cried,

“Oh, grieve not, Lady! grieve not so!

’Twas but a feint to shun the danger

We fear’d from yonder dismal stranger!—

Oh, look upon thy slumbering son!

Hark!—thou may’st hear him breathe!—Lady,
he’ll wake anon!”

XXXI.

With dreary, vague, unconscious stare

The Queen behold the weeping crone,

Her eager words were spent in air,

She pleaded to the senseless stone;

Nor stirr’d, nor spake the Queen, each thought

Seem’d bound some horrid spell beneath,

And to her ear each sound came fraught

With that ill-omen’d hymn of death!

No sight saw she but shrouded dust,

The wreck of Hope and Pride, Ambition’s broken
trust!

XXXII.

Starting, as wak’d from hideous dream,

Forward she sprang with thrilling scream,

And, with impetuous effort, leapt

On the low couch where Edward slept!

Edward awoke— for death alone

Against that shriek the ear might close,

Its piercing, harrowing, maniac tone

Now rouz’d him from his deep repose;

When, mingling pleasure, doubt, and awe,

The vision of his sleep he saw,

He rubb’d his misty eyes, afraid

Fancy had sent some cozening shade;—

’Twas him, indeed!— the bold, the brave,

Firm to support and strong to save

Who rais’d him as he lay beneath the uplifted
glaive!

XXXIII.

Ye, who have sped with us along

Listening with willing ear the song;

Ye kind and noble souls, who dare

The minstrel’s holy trance to share;

Ye genuine followers of the Muse,

Who watch to foster not accuse,

Pausing, she lifts her eyes to you,—

To you she makes her mute appeal,—

In you she hopes!—Ye are but few,

For who shall judge that cannot feel!—

Oh! pardon in her faltering hand

Rest on the lyre unnerv’d and faint,

For scenes there are which were prophan’d

Should tongue or pen presume to paint!

Thus fares it now—each to your breast!

There, Sympathy shall tell the rest!

XXXIV.

For, oh! when we approach the part

Where Nature is too strong for Art,

Silence is skill!—There is a sorrow

Whose deep despair no art may borrow;—

There is a joy which never speech,

Nor Muse, nor tranced bard might reach,

It swells the breast, it lights the eye,

It comes from heaven!— ’tis extasy!

Guess’d it may by mortal mind,

But, (subtle as the fleeting wind,)

Angel or madman must he be

Who dare arrest its course and fix it ere he flee!

XXXV.

Now all was bliss! When Edward spoke

Glad wonder hail’d each feeble word,

As if from death’s cold prison broke

He sprang indeed to life restor’d!

Snatching her darling from the grave,

The Queen the reins to transport gave,

Yet still between each fond caress

She mock’d at nature’s feebleness,

As with indignant shame she felt

Her heart within her bosom melt!

With mute and melancholy joy

The Knight beheld the waking boy;

He might not smile,—stern, silent, sad,

In him ’twere impious to be glad!

XXXIV.

The princely youth, with earnest speech,

(Affection’s genuine courtesy,)

His brave deliverer did beseech

To lay his cumbrous harness by:

“Unhelm, Sir Knight! that iron case,

Envious, conceals a noble face,—

A face, where courage, honour, zeal,

And worth unmatch’d, have set their seal!

Unhelm thy brows!—’tis good to trace

The great and gallant soul stamp’d on a manly
face!”

XXXVII.

“My Prince! this crestless helmet hides

The abstract of a ruin’d mind!

There Cain’s polluting blot abides

And marks me out from human kind!

Alal! my life is in its morn!

My cheek, scarce boasting manhood’s down,

By Sorrow’s scalding course is worn,

And wither’d by Remorse’s frown!

Ambition, Hope, and youthful Pride,

Crush’d by one blow, together died,

And left this breast, their native home,

A dark and melancholy tomb!”

XXXVIII.

The Queen, unus’d to vain command,

Now wav’d with despot air her hand,

With tone that might not be denied

Of mingled courtesy and pride,

She bade him throw his casque aside.

The obedient Knight, with yielding grace,

Slowly remov’d the iron case

And gave to view his manly face;

Nor did its lineaments belie

His form’s sublime and martial mould,

For on his brow, erect and bold,

Full nobly trac’d you might behold

How Sorrow strove with Dignity!

’Twas sad to look on thing so blooming

And think its goodly frame Grief’s canker was
consuming!

XXXIX.

With gracious look the admiring Queen

Survey’d the warlike stranger’s mien,

And bade him to his Prince declare

What chance auspicious led his feet

To that remote, obscure retreat,

The changes of their state to share;

Meanwhile, Dame Maudlin, who began

To think upon her own good-man,

Beheld the hour-glass with dismay

And marvell’d at his long delay;

Gerald, to sooth the anxious crone,

To seek the tardy carl had flown,

When, by the dim and winking light

By rushen taper lent, began the stranger Knight.

XL.

“When panic rout, and trembling flight,

And carnage dire, clos’d Hexham’s fight,

I turn’d, tho’ late, my courser’s head,

And from the dismal field I sped;

By crowds pursued, like winged blast,

Thro’ Dowill’s narrow stream I pass’d;—

Scarce had I dash’d the waters o’er,

And scarce achiev’d the friendly shore,

When, plunging after, I descried,

Foaming and hot in victory’s pride,

A crested warrior;— on mine ear

Came words no man ungall’d might hear,

‘Oh, spare thy spur, thou craven Knight!

Turn thee, and slack thy coward flight!

Turn thee and yield, ere whelming blow

E’en at my courser’s foot shall lay that crestless
brow!’

XLI.

Silent I heard, for ill the tongue

May answer scorn, rebuke and wrong!

Silent I heard, but turn’d my steed

And answer made with rapid deed;

With unpremeditated blow

I rush’d on the insulting foe,

The stroke was death—my vengeful lance,

Tho’ couch’d in haste, and aim’d by chance,

Enter’d the narrow gates of light

And clos’d them in the shades of night!

I pierc’d his eye-ball, and he fell

With agony’s expiring yell!

Now lies he stretch’d ’mong Dowill’s reeds,

A ghastly proof how boasting speeds!

XLII.

The moon now smil’d upon my flight

And o’er my pathway flung her light,

Yet still, how swift soe’er my course,

Still nearer press’d my eager foes,

Till spent at length, my panting horse

Fell staggering—and no more he rose!

Pondering I stood,— to helpful thought

A moment given, my track I left,

And Dowill’s stream returning sought.

And once again its waters cleft,

And having stemm’d the rapid flood,

Plung’d mid the shades of Walden’s wood;—

Here nature fainted,— o’er mine eyes

A mild, encroaching stupor crept,—

I yielded, reckless of surprize,

And, curtain’d by the foliage, slept,—

And heaven’s choristers had long

Awak’d the day with matin song

Ere my restoring slumbers fled.

And springing from my grassy bed,

Mine orisons were sent on high

To Him, whose omnipresent eye

My helpless slumbers watch’d e’en from His distant
sky!

XLIII.

Reckless, unweeting where I went,

Hopeless and fearless hied I on,

Close o’er my head the branches bent

And screen’d me from the noontide sun;

Nor far I wander’d ere I spied

Some fallen chief’s abandon’d pride;

Here lay the gilded helm, and there,

Close by its side, the ponderous spear;

Here glanc’d the gorget, and the shield

Display’d its richly chequer’d field!

Tho’ one foul stain of human gore

Had splash’d the burnish’d harness o’er,

I knew— and dropt a soldier’s tear—

That Clifford’s spoils were scatter’d there!

The gallant beast, who yesterday

Had borne his master to the fray,

Dress’d for the battle, stiffening lay!

’Twas but a little while since life,

Revenge, and pride, and strength, had prick’d
him to the strife.

XLIV.

Absorb’d in mournful thought, mine eye

Survey’d the empty blazonry,

Then wander’d where a little mound

Of withering branches strew’d the ground;—

I gaz’d, and started, for I guess’d

Those boughs o’erspread a hero’s breast!

’Twas Clifford’s tomb! —the keen, the brave

Beneath those simple strewments slept,

And, fearless, o’er the recent grave

The lizard crawl’d, the squirrel leapt!

I felt that not in vain I stood

Alone mid Walden’s silent wood!

Why fate had led me there I knew!

I hail’d my task, I linger’d not,

And, bending o’er the hallow’d spot,

Aside the fragile covering threw,

Small toil it was,—the strong, the bold

Soon lay beneath my gaze, mute, motionless, and
cold!

XLV.

I laid him where the branches wove

With pleached arms a dark alcove,

Then turn’d me to my willing toil;

Nor pick-axe needed I nor spade,

My trusty falchion lent its aid,

My helmet scoop’d the loosening soil;

Nor breath’d I till in earth’s cold breast

I carv’d the warrior’s narrow bed

So deep, that never stranger’s tread

His silent relics may molest;

Then, bidding him farewell, —the soil

Upon his frowning face I threw,

Nor paus’d nor slack’d the mournful toil

Till all the chasm clos’d and hid him from my
view.

XLVI.

Nor done my task:— an aged elm

Stretch’d o’er the grave a guardian shade,

And there of Clifford’s shield and helm,

His buckler bright, and well worn blade,

(All bruis’d with hacks, with blood defil’d,)

My hands the martial trophy pil’d:

XLVII.

My rude, unnurtur’d soldier’s tongue

In holy chant is little skill’d,

Yet I bethought me a song,

Meet for the dead,—solemn and wild,—

Which, from among the faded heap

Of early things forgotten long,

Mem’ry amid her stores did keep—

It was my mother’s widow-song!—

A song of sorrow for the brave,

Meet to be sung o’er Clifford’s grave!

Amd all night long, with measur’d pace,

My solemn lonely watch I kept,

And, as I pass’d the burial-place,

That dirge I sang, and singing wept!

But not alone to Clifford’s shade

Were those weak drops of sorrow paid,

That ancient chant, to childhood dear,

The secret spring had touch’d whence gushes
Memory’s tear.

XLVIII.

Upon my watch the grey morn stole,

And all a soldier might was done,

I pray’d for peace to Clifford’s soul

And clos’d each pious orison:

As if that peace, invok’d for him,

Lent half its balmy dews to me,

Sleep soon relax’d each weary limb,

And, stretch’d beneath a birchen tree,

I turn’d from day-light and its woes,

Existence and its cares, and yielded to repose.

XLIX.

As half-unarm’d and prone I lay,

The day tow’rds fervid noon advanced,

And now a bright and dazzling ray

On my unshelter’d eye-lids glanced,

And, starting, I awoke—when, lo!

Before me stood a form so grim,—

Shuddering, methough I look’d on him,

Man’s everlasting foe!—

He had stolen on slumber’s helpless hour

And watch’d me with malignant low’r!—

With struggle vain to rise I tried,

I lay beneath the ruffian’s stride,

He held me in his pow’r!

L.

I gnash’d my teeth,—I sought to clasp

Those giant limbs with sudden grasp—

No!—moveless as the granite rock,

He stood my fury’s baffled shock,

And laughing loud, in taunting phrase,

Goaded my breast with mock’ry’s praise!

Rage, shame, and hatred banish’d fear,

I trembled, but ’twas phrenzy shook,

Reason my tortur’d mind forsook,

And passion’s whirlwind triumph’d there!

Stung to the inmost soul, at length

I yielded, for my treacherous strength

No more the struggle would maintain,—

Low as the miscreant’s foot, this brow was hurl’d
again!

LI.

My grim antagonist beheld

His victim baffled, spent, and quell’d!—

‘What! do I trample on thy pride!

And art thou pacified?’ he cried:

‘Now, champion, listen to my word,’

‘A single breath decides thy lot,’

‘Uplifts thee, free, to life restor’d,’

‘Or pins thee, writhing, to the spot!’

‘Rais’d thou that doughty arm of thine’

‘For Lancaster’s disputed line,’

‘Or, did York’s prosp’rous quarrel boast’

‘Its matchless aid,— itself an host?’

Sullen I answer’d— ‘He, who now

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

Small parley follow’d,—for my soul

But ill his ruffian pride might brook,

The misplaced language of controul,

The insolent and victor look;

And time it is the tale were told,

For what remains may well be guess’d,

Save, that or ere I cross’d the wold

A gallant courser’s sides I press’d,

A steed, well used to bear the weight,

The ponderous charge of England’s fate!

It is Zerbino,—the brave beast

Refresh’d by liberty and rest,

Mine eyes with eager joy espied

Ranging along the forest side;

I wound my horn,— with sudden bound

He started at the warlike sound;

Again I blew,— with eyes of flame

Forward as to the charge he came!

Familiar speech and kind caress

Soon soothed him into gentleness,

With hand outstreched, and plausive word

His near approach I did invite,

Till won at length he yielded quite,

And now beside the gate he greets his Royal
lord!”

LV.

Tho all unbroken we have brought

The stranger’s story to its close,

With question keen and sudden thought

The Queen did often interpose;

When the black warrior’s vengeful hand

Had strech’d his foe on Dowill’s strand,

Her voice in ruthless triumph scream’d,

With ghastly joy her features gleam’d;

But when, in mournful phrase, he said

How he poor Clifford’s grave had made,

The languid Edward rais’d his head,

And, bending from his lowly bed,

Hid in the warrior’s kind embrace

The tears that glisten’d on his face:

Nor did the Queen disdain a smile,

When his indignant tongue confest

The angry throbbings of his breast,

While prone, oustretched in durance vile,

He lay a baffled wight, by Rudolph’s force op-press’d!

LVI.

Now slowly opes the cottage door!

’Tis the old shepherd from the moor,

And Gerald, who not sent in vain,

Has led the lingerer home again:

Old Oswald now began to tell

The various troubles of the day,

How mid the flock some feeble fell,

While others stray’d so far away

That but the moon did lend her light,

Or he surprized had been by night.

LVII.

The shepherd-boy, who not till now

Beheld unhelm’d the stranger’s brow,

Now met his eye, — in wild amaze,

With rolling orbs, awhile they gaze,

They stand, to speech and motion loth,

As if some spell enchain’d them both,

Nay, you might think,—such pale surprize

Glar’d from their wild and glassy eyes,

That, risen from the shades of night,

Some beckoning spectre met their sight!

Now Gerald’s knees together smote,

Thick mists around his senses float,

Fainting he falls!—his form supine

The stranger’s iron arms entwine,

While sobbing loud he cries, “Revive, my Geraldine!”

I.

Why, what a coil we mortals make

For wealth, and pow’r, and honour’s sake,

And, how we run our rapid years

Through joys and sorrows, hopes and fears!

With beating pulse, and eager eye,

And throbbing bosom, on we fly

Along the pathway swept before

By crowds whose headlong course is o’er!

Alas! why need we run so fast?

Why need we pant and tremble so?

Alike, the nimble and the slow,

All reach the goal at last!

Of all the millions who have run

Life’s rapid race beneath the sun,

None miss’d the goal—and equal meed

Or first, or last, rewards their speed

In silence each receives his lot,

His heap of crumbling mould, and rests, and is
forgot!

II.

Who can resolve, a stander-by,

To look upon the giddy chace,

And mark with undeluded eye

The humours of the race,

And wait till punctual time shall come

To take the calm spectator home?

None! The philosopher who knows

Where soon the thriftless speed must close,

Marvels how others persevere,

Yet joins himself the swift career,

On with the whirling crowd he hies,

And, as he moralizes, flies.

Stay., restless heart! stay, toiling brain!

The prize for which ye run behold!—

A little mound of crumbling mould,

This is the earthly racer’s gain!

At least, look upward as ye fly

And snatch a promise from the sky!

III.

The stranger to his iron breast

Tenacious strain’d the lifeless boy,

While all his varying face confest

A warfare strange of doubt and joy;

Now he the raven hair divides,

Whose thick and clustering curtain hides

The sheep-boy’s russet brows,

And kiss’d the cold, unconscious face,

While down his manly cheek apace

The rapid rain-drop flows;

Nor shame, nor apathy, nor pride

Might then forbid the briny tide,

Uncheck’d it trickles down his cheeks;

’Tis still in tears that transport speaks!

With soothing, pleading voice he cries,

Tho’ smother’d half with stifling sighs,

“My Geraldine, revive! Sweet sister, ope thine
eyes!”

IV.

But no! so still and cold she lay,

It seem’d as tho’ she breath’d no more,

And, fill’d with terror and dismay,

The stranger snatch’d her from the floor,

And flinging wide the cottage door

Call’d the fresh night-breeze to his aid,

And bade it fan the lifeless maid;

And now the death-like slumbers fled,

And now she lifts her languid head,

A furtive glance of pale affright

Upon the sable Knight she threw,

Then shrinking, shuddering at his sight,

Her timid eyes withdrew.

V.

“Why dost thou take the precious form

Of him who perish’d in the storm?

Why dost thou come? the gulph profound

Roll’d all its waves that form around!

I saw them roll! I heard them roar;

I caught, amid the tempest’s swell,

My brother’s long and last farewel!

The surge clos’d o’er his head! Oh God! it op’d
no more.”

VI.

“Nay, Geraldine!—And if indeed

Thy brother slept beneath the wave,

Methinks thy danger, or thy need,

Would call him even from the grave!

And couldst thou view that sprite with loathing

Which ever in its mortal cloathing

Clung round its sister and its friend,

Still bent to cherish and defend?

Alas! methought that helpless head

Had done with man’s defense for aye,

And, rock’d by murm’ring billows, lay

Full many a fathom deep in ocean’s oozy bed!”

VII.

“Yes! thou art Gerald! now I know

That mild fraternal voice again,

But silent, solitary woe

Had craz’d my feeble brain!

Alas! my brother! it was hard

To bear the grief no mortal shar’d,

And many an hour, since thou wert gone,

Poor Geraldine has wept alone!

Sure thou art alter’d! and thy front

More grim and stern than it was wont!

Hollow and dark, those eyes of thine,

So wont with youthful hope to shine,

Gaze sadly on thy Geraldine!

How art thou thriven in size and might!

Thy form has towr’d to manhood’s height!

Oh Gerald! What a smile is there!

The smile tells not of joy!—its language is despair!”

VIII.

“Hush, Geraldine!—Whatever change

Affection’s vigilance may trace,

Whate’er of transformation strange

Has mark’d my form and face,

Alas! but feebly they impart

The changes in my alter’d heart!

But smile, my sister! Ill it were

In blistering tears this hour to steep!

Smile, Geraldine! we need not fear,

We shall have time to weep!”

IX.

The lady now with timid eyes

Surveys abash’d her rude disguise,

Falters and shrinks and hangs her head,

Aw’d by the Queen’s imperious look,

Her trembling hand as Gerald took,

And towards his Royal Mistress led;

They knelt; the Knight’s revolting soul

The humble homage half-denied;

Well had he mark’d the haughty scowl

And with quick flash of jealous pride

His dark reproving eye replied,

The pulse so long by grief subdued

Now throbb’d, awaken’d and renew’d,

And not in vain his bosom swell’d;

Pride shrinks by answering pride repell’d

With bright’ning brow the Queen inclin’d

Her lofty suppliant’s pray’r to heed,

The smile, compliant, gracious, kind

Already speaks the soften’d mind,

For he who dares, shall always speed.

X.

“If in thy quarrel I have bled,

If on its dismal altar-stone

This rash and impious hand has shed

A life-drop dearer than its own!

By all I’ve lavish’d on thy part,

My blighted hopes,—my broken heart,—

Oh Lady! let thy royal bosom

Protect and shield this fragile blossom!

Foster’d by thy benignant hand

Its pale corolla shall expand,

E’en when, by life’s rude tempest laid,

The kindred plant must cease to shelter and to
shade!”

XI.

“Yet hear me Lady!”—and the glow

Of mounting blood suffus’d his brow,—

“Of Erin’s noblest, proudest race

Our father stood amongst the best;

And the red stream that warm’d his breast

Thro’ many an age he lov’d to trace,

Nor paus’d he, as he track’d its course,

Till he had found a royal source.

This maid is noble!—Nay, her dress,

Unseemly, rude, of rustic kind,

Ill hides the native nobleness

Within her soul enshrin’d!

The clear, bright spirit sparkles through

That dusky, dim, eclipsing hue:

Methinks that no disguise may shade

The grace, sublime yet mild, that decks the highborn
maid!”

XII.

Margaret’s mute answer well replied,

It sooth’d his heart, and calm’d his pride,

For, rising,—her majestic face

Bright with consoling smiles,—the Queen,

As with a mother’s kind embrace,

Greeted the gentle Geraldine;

And haply, was about to pour

Of promises a gracious store;

But Edward, in impetuous tone

And hurried voice, the parley claim’d—

“When in the battle overthrown

And life and hope were almost gone,

Thy falchion to my rescue flam’d!

Mark well the vow, compos’d of breath

Thy gallant arm redeem’d from death!

By all the host of heaven I swear

With thee a brother’s task to share!”

XIII.

“Sweet maid! no rival sister’s frown

Thy soft acceptance shall upbraid;

Thy love I offer is mine own,

Wilt thou reject it, noble maid?

Ours, lady, is a dangerous trade—

How oft must timid beauty see

The warlike, bold, and boastful trust

On which she leans, crush’d in the dust,

Struck down by ruthless destiny!

One brother!—’Tis a feeble stay

In battle’s fierce, tumultuous day!

Nay, lady, answer not with tears;

Weep not, I would but bribe thy fears!”

XIV.

Who might deny when Edward sued?

His voice such mellow music own’d,

With forceful magic so endued,

Each heart, in pleas’d subjection bound,

Still waited fondly on the sound;

And if the Lady Geraldine

In silence, and in tears replied;

Whatever cause we may assign,

It was not scorn, it was not pride,

For Edward heard a grateful sigh

Low answering to his courtesy.

Why should we give the sophist praise

Who moulds and turns the subtle phrase,

Since ne’er his labour’d eloquence

Flow’d half so sweetly o’er the sense

As that low tremulous sigh of virgin innocence?

XV.

But Margaret’s darkening brow behold!

One glance may well suffice to tell

Within her bosom’s troubled hold,

What rankling, restless passions dwell.

A smile, a ghastly, withering smile

Convulsive o’er her features play’d

And her disdainful eye the while

With menace smote the noble maid;

Nor needed language to convey

What that dark, deadly look would say;

It spoke mistrust, and scorn, and hate,

And this, methinks, its important dread,—

“Oh! were I wing’d with sudden fate,

Swift should my lightning-bolt be sped,

Audacious stranger, on thine head;

For, meek and gentle as thou art,

Thy glance has fill’d with doubt a royal mother’s
heart!”

XVI.

She waited,—for they are but fools

Who break the pause till passion cools;

Then, in a pois’d and studied tone

Where pity and surprize contended,

And chidings mild, with soothing blended,

Bespake she her offending son:

“Oh Prince! that wasting wound has spent

Such torrents of thy soul had vent,

For thy high mind and manly sense

Seem dwindling into impotence!

Has pain so quell’d thy royal heart

That thou forgett’st what man thou art?

Or dost thou prize a lady’s glove

An empire and a crown above?

Sickens thy spirit with thy frame?

Would thou wert of thy mother’s mood!

Storm after storm my soul has stood,

Yet still amid the blast bright glows ambition’s
flame!”

XVII.

She paus’d, for like a pointed lance

She felt Sir Gerald’s answering glance;

“Pardon, dread Lady! ’Tis man’s pride,

His highest, worthiest, noblest boast,

The privilege he prizes most,

To stand by helpless woman’s side;

Nor is he worthy of a crown

That privilege who would disown!

Nay, frown not, Lady! This poor maid

May found in blood a dreadful claim

E’en in a murder’d brother’s name

Upon thy Royal house’s aid!

Yea! writ in blood by this rash hand,

Her bond against thy soul shall stand,

If thou with hard neglect forget

My sister’s heavy claim, her deeply-written debt!”

XVIII.

A light was in Sir Gerald’s eye

Which reason own’d not,—’twas the glare,

Wavering, yet bright, of lunacy,

The rapid meteor of despair!

Now all was silent—Geraldine

In speechless horror trembling stood;

Her brother’s stern, unwonted mien,

His dark and dismal speech I ween

Ran chilly thro’ her blood!

Save him, on earth, no living thing

Had Geraldine whereon to cling,

None else to love and trust, yet now,

From the grim terrors of his brow

She shrank appall’d, for, of his eye

The unsocial language, did defy

E’en the meek cherub Sympathy!

XIX.

“What! dost thou tremble, Geraldine!

Oh! what a ruthless lot is mine!

One helpless, fragile thing to me

To shield and cherish fate has given,

No other refuge can she see

Beneath the wide expanse of heaven,

And I am mad! Oh that the wave

Roll’d o’er us both,—that fast asleep,

Rock’d by the cold and billowy deep,

All still and calm we lay in ocean’s secret cave!”

XX.

“Oh! when the demon and his train

Usurp it o’er my heart and brain,

All goes to wreck!—The ruthless fiend

Scatters each record to the wind!

Nor duty, then, nor love I know,