And with congenial murmurs seem
To wake the Genii of the stream;

For louder clamour'd Greta's tide,
And Tees in deeper voice replied,
And fitful waked the evening wind,
Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd.

Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul

Felt in the scene a soft controul,

With lighter footstep press'd the ground,
And often paused to look around;

And, though his path was to his love,
Could not but linger in the grove,
To drink the thrilling interest dear,
Of awful pleasure check'd by fear.

Such inconsistent moods have we,

Even when our passions strike the key.

III.

Now through the wood's dark mazes past,

The opening lawn he reach'd at last,

Where, silver'd by the moonlight ray,

The ancient Hall before him lay.
Those martial terrors long were fled,
That frown'd of old around its head:
The battlements, the turrets grey,
Seem'd half abandon'd to decay;

On barbican and keep of stone

Stern Time the foeman's work had done;
Where banners the invader braved,

The hare-bell now and wall-flower waved;
In the rude guard-room, where of yore
Their weary hours the warders wore,
Now, while the cheerful faggots blaze,
On the paved floor the spindle plays;
The flanking guns dismounted lie,
The moat is ruinous and dry,

The grim portcullis gone-and all

The fortress turn'd to peaceful hall.

IV.

But yet precautions, lately ta'en,

Shew'd danger's day revived again;

The court-yard wall shew'd marks of care, The fallen defences to repair,

Lending such strength as might withstand

The insult of marauding band.

The beams once more were taught to bear

The trembling draw-bridge into air,

And not, till question'd o'er and o'er,

For Wilfrid oped the jealous door,

And when he enter'd, bolt and bar Resumed their place with sullen jar; Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch, The old grey porter raised his torch, And view'd him o'er, from foot to head,

Ere to the hall his steps he led.

That huge old hall, of knightly state,

Dismantled seem'd and desolate.

The moon through transom-shafts of stone,

Which cross'd the latticed oriels, shone,

And by the mournful light she gave,

The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave.

Pennon and banner waved no more

O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar,
Nor glimmering arms were marshall'd seen,
To glance those sylvan spoils between.
Those arms, those ensigns, borne away,
Accomplish'd Rokeby's brave array,

But all were lost on Marston's day!
Yet, here and there the moon-beams fall

Where armour yet adorns the wall,
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight,

And useless in the modern fight;
Like veteran relique of the wars,
Known only by neglected scars.

V.

Matilda soon to greet him came,

And bade them light the evening flame;

Said, all for parting was prepared,

And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard.

But then, reluctant to unfold

His father's avarice of gold,

He hinted, that, lest jealous eye
Should on their precious burthen pry,
He judged it best the castle gate
To enter when the night wore late;
And therefore he had left command.
With those he trusted of his band,
That they should be at Rokeby met,
What time the midnight watch was set.

Now Redmond came, whose anxious care

Till then was busied to prepare

All needful, meetly to arrange

The mansion for its mournful change.