XX

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart,
Averse to every active part,

But most adverse to martial broil,

From danger shrunk and turned from toil;
Yet the meek lover of the lyre

Nursed one brave spark of noble fire;
Against injustice, fraud, or wrong

His blood beat high, his hand waxed strong.

Not his the nerves that could sustain,

Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain;

But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, He rose superior to his frame.

And now it came, that generous mood;

And, in full current of his blood,

On Bertram he laid desperate hand,

Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. 'Should every fiend to whom thou'rt sold Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. Arouse there, ho! take spear and sword! Attach the murderer of your lord!'

XXI

A moment, fixed as by a spell,

Stood Bertram - it seemed miracle,

That one so feeble, soft, and tame
Set grasp on warlike Risingham.

But when he felt a feeble stroke

The fiend within the ruffian woke!

To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand, To dash him headlong on the sand,

Was but one moment's work, one more Had drenched the blade in Wilfred's gore. But in the instant it arose

To end his life, his love, his woes,

A warlike form that marked the scene
Presents his rapier sheathed between,
Parries the fast-descending blow,
And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe;
Nor then unscabbarded his brand,
But, sternly pointing with his hand,
With monarch's voice forbade the fight,
And motioned Bertram from his sight.
'Go, and repent,' he said, 'while time
Is given thee; add not crime to crime.'

XXII

Mute and uncertain and amazed,

As on a vision Bertram gazed!

'T was Mortham's bearing, bold and high, His sinewy frame, his falcon eye,

His look and accent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,
His war-bleached locks

-'t was Mortham all. Through Bertram's dizzy brain career A thousand thoughts, and all of fear; His wavering faith received not quite The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, But more he feared it if it stood His lord in living flesh and blood. What spectre can the charnel send, So dreadful as an injured friend? Then, too, the habit of command, Used by the leader of the band When Risingham for many a day

Had marched and fought beneath his sway,

Tamed him and with reverted face

Backwards he bore his sullen pace,

Oft stopped, and oft on Mortham stared,
And dark as rated mastiff glared,

But when the tramp of steeds was heard
Plunged in the glen and disappeared;

Nor longer there the warrior stood,
Retiring eastward through the wood,
But first to Wilfrid warning gives,

'Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.'

XXIII

Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear, Hinting he knew not what of fear, When nearer came the coursers' tread, And, with his father at their head, Of horsemen armed a gallant power Reined up their steeds before the tower. 'Whence these pale looks, my son?' he said: 'Where's Bertram? Why that naked blade?' Wilfrid ambiguously replied

-

For Mortham's charge his honour tied 'Bertram is gone the villain's word

Avouched him murderer of his lord!
Even now we fought - but when your tread
Announced you nigh, the felon fled.'

In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear
A guilty hope, a guilty fear;

On his pale brow the dew-drop broke,
And his lip quivered as he spoke:

XXIV

'A murderer! - Philip Mortham died Amid the battle's wildest tide.

Wilfrid, or Bertram raves or you!

Yet, grant such strange confession true,

Justice must sleep in civil war.'
A gallant youth rode near his side,
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried;
That morn an embassy of weight
He brought to Barnard's castle-gate,
And followed now in Wycliffe's train
An answer for his lord to gain.

His steed, whose arched and sable neck
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck,
Chafed not against the curb more high
Than he at Oswald's cold reply;

He bit his lip, implored his saint-
His the old faith

then burst restraint:

XXV

'Yes! I beheld his bloody fall

By that base traitor's dastard ball,
Just when I thought to measure sword,
Presumptuous hope! with Mortham's lord.
And shall the murderer 'scape who slew
His leader, generous, brave, and true?
Escape, while on the dew you trace
The marks of his gigantic pace?

No! ere the sun that dew shall dry,
False Risingham shall yield or die. -

Ring out the castle larum-bell!
Arouse the peasants with the knell!