By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,

The children still were hand and hand,

And good Sir Richard smiling eyed

The early knot so kindly tied.

XII.

But summer months bring wilding shoot
From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;

And years draw on our human span,
From child to boy, from boy to man;
And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen

A gallant boy in hunter's green.
He loves to wake the felon boar,
In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,
And loves, against the deer so dun,
To draw the shaft, or lift the gun;
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,
And down its cluster'd stores to hail,
Where young Matilda holds her veil.

And she, whose veil receives the shower,

Is alter'd too, and knows her power;

Assumes a monitress's pride,

Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide,

Yet listens still to hear him tell

How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,
How at his fall the bugle rung,

Till rock and green-wood answer flung;
Then blesses her, that man can find

A pastime of such savage kind!

XIII.

But Redmond knew to weave his tale
So well with praise of wood and dale,
And knew so well each point to trace,
Gives living interest to the chase,

And knew so well o'er all to throw

His spirit's wild romantic glow,

That, while she blamed, and while she fear'd,

She loved each venturous tale she heard.

Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain

To bower and hall their steps restrain,

Together they explored the page
Of glowing bard or gifted sage;

Oft, placed the evening fire beside,
The minstrel art alternate tried,

While gladsome harp and lively lay
Bade winter-night flit fast away:

Thus from their childhood blending still

Their sport, their study, and their skill,
An union of the soul they prove,

But must not think that it was love.

But though they dared not, envious Fame

Soon dared to give that union name;

And when so often, side by side,

From year to year the pair she eyed,

She sometimes blamed the good old Knight,

As dull of ear and dim of sight,

Sometimes his purpose would declare,

That young O'Neale should wed his heir.

XIV.

The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise

And bandage from the lovers' eyes;
'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son,

Had Rokeby's favour well nigh won.

Now must they meet with change of cheer,

With mutual looks of shame and fear;

Now must Matilda stray apart,

To school her disobedient heart;

And Redmond now alone must rue

The love he never can subdue.

But factions rose, and Rokeby sware,

No rebel's son should wed his heir;

And Redmond, nurtured while a child
In many a bard's traditions wild,

Now sought the lonely wood or stream,
To cherish there a happier dream,
Of maiden won by sword or lance,

As in the regions of romance;

And count the heroes of his line,

Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,

Shane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine,

And Connan-More, who vow'd his race

For ever to the fight and chase,

And cursed him, of his lineage born,

Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn,

Or leave the mountain and the wold,

To shroud himself in castled hold.

From such examples hope he drew,

And brighten'd as the trumpet blew.

XV.

If brides were won by heart and blade,

Redmond had both his cause to aid,
And all beside of nurture rare

That might beseem a baron's heir.
Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife,
On Rokeby's Lord bestow'd his life,