And rouse her with his matin ray
Her duteous orisons to pay,

That morning sun has three times seen
The flow'rs unfold on Rokeby green,
But sees no more the slumbers fly
From fair Matilda's hazel eye;
That morning sun has three times broke
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak,
But, rising from their silvan screen,
Marks no grey turrets' glance between.
A shapeless mass lie keep and tow'r,
That, hissing to the morning show'r,
Can but with smould'ring vapour pay
The early smile of summer day.
The peasant, to his labour bound,
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound,
Striving, amid the ruin'd space,
Each well-remember'd spot to trace.
That length of frail and fire-scorch'd wall
Once screen'd the hospitable hall;
When yonder broken arch was whole,
"Twas there was dealt the weekly dole;
And where yon tott'ring columns nod,
The chapel sent the hymn to God.-
So flits the world's uncertain span!
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man,
Gives mortal monuments a date
Beyond the pow'r of Time and Fate.
The tow'rs must share the builder's doom;
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb:

But better boon benignant Heav'n

To Faith and Charity has giv'n,

And bids the Christian hope sublime

Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time.

II.

Now the third night of summer came,
Since that which witness'd Rokeby's flame.
On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake

The owlet's homilies awake,

The bittern scream'd from rush and flag,
The raven slumber'd on his crag,

543

Forth from his den the otter drew,—
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew,
As between reed and sedge he peers,
With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears,
Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool,
Watches the stream or swims the pool;-
Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high,
Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye,
That all the day had watch'd so well
The cushat dart across the dell.
In dubious beam reflected shone
That lofty cliff of pale grey stone,
Beside whose base the secret cave
To rapine late a refuge gave.

The crag's wild crest of copse and yew
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw;
Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight,
With ev'ry change of fitful light;
As hope and fear alternate chase

Our course through life's uncertain race.

Gliding by crag and copsewood green,
A solitary form was seen

To trace with stealthy pace the wold,
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold,
And pauses oft, and cow'rs dismay'd,
At ev'ry breath that stirs the shade.
He passes now the ivy bush,-
The owl has seen him, and is hush;
He passos now the dodder'd oak,-
He heard the startled raven eroak;
Lower and lower he descends,
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends;
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the cliff of pale grey stone
The midnight wand rer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remember'd form and face!
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale,
Combine to tell a rueful tale,

Of pow'rs misus'd, of passion's force,
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse!
'Tis Edmund's eye, at ev'ry sound
That flings that guilty glance around;
Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides
The brushwood that the cavern hides;
And, when its narrow porch lies bare,
'Tis Edmund's form that enters there.

IV.

His flint and steel have sparkl'd bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light.
Fearful and quick his eye surveys
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode,
It seem'd as none its floor had trod;
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil,
The purchase of his comrades' toil;
Masks and disguises grim d with mud,
Arms broken and defil'd with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade,
Upon the gloomy walls were hung,
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relics of the noontide cheer:
Flagons and empty flasks were there,
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair;
And all around the semblance show'd,

As when the final revel glow'd,
When the red sun was setting fast,
And parting pledge Guy Denzil past.
"To Rokeby treasure-vaults!" they quaff'd,
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd,
Pour'd madd'ning from the rocky door,
And parted-to return no more!

They found in Rokeby vaults their doom,-
A bloody death, a burning tomb!

There his own peasant dress he spies,

Do'd to assume that quaint disguise;

And shudd'ring thought upon his glee,
When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy.
"O, be the fatal art accurst,"

He cried, "that mov'd my folly first;
Till, brib'd by bandits' base applause,
I burst through God's and Nature's laws!
Three summer days are scantly past
Since I have trod this cavern last,

A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err-
But, O, as yet no murderer!

Ev'n now I list my comrades' cheer,
That gen'ral laugh is in mine ear,

Which rais'd my pulse, and steel'd my heart,

As I rehears'd my treach'rous part

And would that all since then could seem
The phantom of a fever's dream!

But fatal Mem'ry notes too well

The horrors of the dying yell,

From my despairing mates that broke,

When flash'd the fire and roll d the smoke;

When the avengers shouting came,

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

VL

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

Nor paus'd till, deep beneath the ground,
His search a small steel casket found.

Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp,
His shoulder felt a giant grasp.

He started, and look'd up aghast,

Then shriek'd!-'Twas Bertram held him fast

"Fear not!" he said; but who could hear

That deep stern voice, and cease to fear?

"Fear not!-By heav'n he shakes as much
As partridge in the falcon's clutch :"-
He rais'd him, and unloos'd his hold,
While from the op'ning casket roll'd
A chain and reliquaire of gold.
Bertram beheld it with surprise,
Gaz'd on its fashion and device,
Then, cheering Edmund as he could,
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood:
For still the youth's half-lifted eye
Quiver'd with terror's agony,

And sidelong glanc'd, as to explore,
In meditated flight, the door.

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

What mak'st thou here? what means this toy?
Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were ta'en;
What lucky chance unbound your chain?
I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tow'r,

Your head's were warp'd with sun and show'r.
Tell me the whole-and, mark! nought e'er
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear."
Grath'ring his courage to his aid,

But trembling still, the youth obey'd.

VII.

"Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er
In fetters on the dungeon floor.
A guest the third sad morrow brought;
Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought,
And ey'd my comrade long askance,
With fix'd and penetrating glance.

'Guv Denzil art thou call'd?'-The same.'-
'At Court who serv'd wild Buckinghame;
Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place,
So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase;
That lost-I need not tell thee why-
Thou mad'st thy wit thy wants supply,
Then fought for Rokeby:-Have I guess'd
My pris'ner right ?'-At thy behest.'--