Over hill, over valley, o'er dale and o'er down;
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the
Crown!
He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,-
GOD strike with the gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The Roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose ! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the Barons of England that fight for the Crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown!
21 Alas!' Matilda said, 'that strain,
Good Harper, now is heard in vain!
The time has been, at such a sound,
When Rokeby's vassals gathered round,
An hundred manly hearts would bound;
But now, the stirring verse we hear,
Like trump in dying soldier's ear!
Listless and sad the notes we own,
The power to answer them is flown.
Yet not without his meet applause
Be he that sings the rightful cause,
Even when the crisis of its fate
To human eye seems desperate.
While Rokeby's heir such power retains,
Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains :-
And lend thy harp: I fain would try,
If my poor skill can aught supply,
Ere yet I leave my fathers' hall,
To mourn the cause in which we fall.'—
22 The Harper, with a downcast look,
And trembling hand, her bounty took.
And yet, the conscious pride of art
Had steeled him in his treacherous
part;
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd,
That hath each gentler mood suppress'd,
And reigned in many a human breast,—
From his that plans the red campaign,
To his that wastes the woodland reign.
The failing wing, the bloodshot eye,
The sportsman marks with apathy,
Each feeling of his victim's ill
Drowned in his own successful skill.
The veteran, too, who now no more
Aspires to head the battle's roar,
Loves still the triumph of his art,
And traces on the pencilled chart
Some stern invader's destined way,
Through blood and ruin, to his prey;
Patriots to death, and towns to flame,
He dooms, to raise another's name,
And shares the guilt, though not the fame.
What pays him for his span of time
Spent in premeditating crime?
What against pity arms his heart?—
It is the conscious pride of art.
23 But principles in Edmund's mind.
Were baseless, vague, and undefined.
His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On Passion's changeful tide was toss'd;
Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour;
And oh when Passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to Virtue's share!
Yet now she roused her for the pride,
That lack of sterner guilt supplied,
Could scarce support him when arose
The lay that mourned Matilda's woes.
The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear,
They mingle with the song;
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,
I must not hear them long.
From every loved and native haunt
The native heir must stray,
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt,
Must part before the day.
Soon from the halls my fathers reared,
Their scutcheons may descend,
A line so long beloved and feared
May soon obscurely end.
No longer here Matilda's tone
Shall bid these echoes swell;
Yet shall they hear her proudly own
The cause in which we fell.
The Lady paused, and then again
Resumed the lay in loftier strain.-
24 Let our halls and towers decay,
Be our name and line forgot,
Lands and manors pass away,—
We but share our Monarch's lot.
If no more our annals show
Battles won and banners taken,
Still in death, defeat, and woe,
Ours be loyalty unshaken!
Constant still in danger's hour,
Princes owned our fathers' aid;
Lands and honours, wealth and power,
Well their loyalty repaid.
Perish wealth, and power, and pride!
Mortal boons by mortals given;
But let Constancy abide,
Constancy's the gift of Heaven.
25 While thus Matilda's lay was heard,
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody;
And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,
Claiming respect, yet waving state,
That marks the daughters of the great.
Yet not, perchance, had these alone
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown;
But, while her energy of mind
Superior rose to griefs combined,
Lending its kindling to her eye,
Giving her form new majesty,-
To Edmund's thought Matilda seemed
The very object he had dreamed,
When, long ere guilt his soul had
known,
In Winston bowers he mused alone,
Taxing his fancy to combine
The face, the air, the voice divine,
Of princess fair, by cruel fate
Reft of her honours, power, and state,
Till to her rightful realm restored
By destined hero's conquering sword.
26 'Such was my vision!' Edmund thought; 'And have I, then, the ruin wrought
Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er
In fairest vision formed her peer?
Was it my hand, that could unclose
The postern to her ruthless foes?
Foes lost to honour, law, and faith,
Their kindest mercy sudden death!
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