VII.

With deep impatience, tinged with fear,

His host beheld him gorge his cheer,

And quaff the full carouze, that lent

His brow a fiercer hardiment.

Now Oswald stood a space aside,

Now paced the room with hasty stride, In feverish agony to learn

Tidings of deep and dread concern,

Cursing each moment that his guest

Protracted o'er his ruffian feast;

Yet, viewing with alarm, at last,

The end of that uncouth repast,

Almost he seem'd their haste to rue,
As, at his sign, his train withdrew,
And left him with the stranger, free
To question of his mystery.

Then did his silence long proclaim
A struggle between fear and shame.

VIII.

Much in the stranger's mien appears,

To justify suspicious fears.

On his dark face a scorching clime,

And toil, had done the work of time,

Roughen'd the brow, the temples bared,
And sable hairs with silver shared,

Yet left-what age alone could tame-
The lip of pride, the eye of flame,

The full-drawn lip that upward curl'd,

The eye, that seem'd to scorn the world.

That lip had terror never blanch'd;

Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quench'd

The flash severe of swarthy glow,

That mock'd at pain and knew not woe; Inured to danger's direst form,

Tornade and earthquake, flood and storm, Death had he seen by sudden blow,

By wasting plague, by tortures slow,

By mine or breach, by steel or ball,

Knew all his shapes, and scorn'd them all.

IX.

But yet, though BERTRAM's harden'd look,

Unmoved, could blood and danger brook,
Still worse than apathy had place

On his swart brow and callous face;

For evil passions, cherish'd long,

Had plough'd them with impressions strong. All that gives gloss to sin, all gay

Light folly, past with youth away,

But rooted stood, in manhood's hour,
The weeds of vice, without their flower.
And yet the soil in which they grew,
Had it been tamed when life was new,
Had depth and vigour to bring forth

The hardier fruits of virtuous worth.

Not that, e'en then, his heart had known

The gentler feelings' kindlier tone;

But lavish waste had been refined

To bounty in his chasten'd mind,

And lust of gold, that waste to feed,

Been lost in love of glory's meed,

And, frantic then no more,

his pride

Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide.

X.

Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd,

Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter stain'd, Still knew his daring soul to soar,

And mastery o'er the mind he bore;

For meaner guilt, or heart less hard,
Quail'd beneath Bertram's bold regard.
And this felt Oswald, while in vain
He strove, by many a winding train,

To lure his sullen guest to show,

Unask'd, the news he long'd to know,

While on far other subject hung

His heart, than falter'd from his tongue.

Yet nought for that his guest did deign

To note or spare his secret pain,

But still, in stern and stubborn sort,

Return'd him answer dark and short,

Or started from the theme, to range

In loose digression wild and strange,
And forced the embarrass'd host to buy,

By query close, direct reply.

XI.

Awhile he glozed upon the cause
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws,

And Church reform'd-but felt rebuke

Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look.
Then stammer'd-" Has a field been fought?
Has Bertram news of battle brought?
For sure a soldier, famed so far

In foreign fields for feats of war,
On eve of fight ne'er left the host,
Until the field were won or lost."-