Jaded and weary, horse and man,

Return'd the troopers, one by one.
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say,

All trace was lost of Bertram's way,
Though Redmond still, up Brignal wood,
The hopeless quest in vain pursued.—
O fatal doom of human race!

What tyrant passions passions chase!
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone,
Avarice and pride resume their throne;
The pang of instant terror by,

They dictate thus their slave's reply.

XXX.

“ Ay—let him range like hasty hound! And if the grim wolf's lair be found, Small is my care how goes the game

With Redmond or with Risingham,

Nay, answer not, thou simple boy!

Thy fair Matilda, all so coy

To thee, is of another mood

To that bold youth of Erin's blood.
Thy ditties will she freely praise,

And pay thy pains with courtly phrase ;
In a rough path will oft command-
Accept at least-thy friendly hand;

His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd,
Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid,
While conscious passion plainly speaks
In downcast look and blushing cheeks.
Whene'er he sings will she glide nigh,
And all her soul is in her eye,

Yet doubts she still to tender free

The wonted words of courtesy.

These are strong signs !-yet wherefore sigh,

And wipe, effeminate, thine eye?

Thine shall she be, if thou attend

The counsels of thy sire and friend.

XXXI.

"Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of light

Brought genuine news of Marston's fight.
Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide,

;

And conquest bless'd the rightful side
Three thousand cavaliers lie dead,

Rupert and that bold Marquis fled;

Nobles and knights, so proud of late,

Must fine for freedom and estate.

Of these committed to my charge,
Is Rokeby, prisoner at large;

Redmond, his page, arrived, to say
He reaches Barnard's towers to-day.
Right heavy shall his ransom be,

Unless that maid compound with thee!

Go to her now-be bold of cheer,

While her soul floats 'twixt hope and fear:

It is the very change of tide,

When best the female heart is tried

Pride, prejudice, and modesty,

Are in the current swept to sea,

And the bold swain, who plies his oar, May lightly row his bark to shore."

END OF CANTO SECOND.

ROKEBY.

CANTO THIRD.