Or let them cross the River Tweed,
And be at once from peril freed!"
"Ah, tempt me not!" she faintly sighed; "I will not counsel nor exhort,
With my condition satisfied;
But you, at least, may make report
Of what befalls; be this
This may be done; — 't is all I ask!"
She spake, and from the Lady's sight
The Sire, unconscious of his age,
Departed promptly as a Page
Bound on some errand of delight.
The noble Francis, wise as brave,
Thought he, may want not skill to save.
With hopes in tenderness concealed,
Unarmed he followed to the field;
Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers
Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,
“Grant that the Moon which shines this night May guide them in a prudent flight!"
But quick the turns of chance and change,
And knowledge has a narrow range;
Whence idle fears, and needless pain,
And wishes blind, and efforts vain.
The Moon may shine, but cannot be
Their guide in flight, already she
Hath witnessed their captivity.
The Father from within the walls;
But, see, the sacred Standard falls!
Confusion through the Camp spread wide:
Some fled; and some their fears detained:
But ere the Moon had sunk to rest
In her pale chambers of the west,
Of that rash levy naught remained.
HIGH on a point of rugged ground
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell,
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
An edifice of warlike frame
Stands single, Norton Tower its name;
It fronts all quarters, and looks round
O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream,
Upon a prospect without bound.
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free
As Pendle Hill or Pennygent
From wind, or frost, or vapors wet-
Had often heard the sound of glee
When there the youthful Nortons met,
To practise games and archery:
How proud and happy they! the crowd
Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud!
And from the scorching noontide sun,
From showers, or when the prize was won,
They to the Tower withdrew, and there
Would mirth run round, with generous fare;
And the stern old Lord of Rylstone hall
Was happiest, proudest, of them all!
But now, his Child, with anguish pale,
Upon the height walks to and fro ;
'Tis well that she hath heard the tale,
Received the bitterness and woe:
For she had hoped, had hoped and feared,
Such right did feeble nature claim;
And oft her steps had hither steered,
Though not unconscious of self-blame;
For she her Brother's charge revered,
His farewell words; and by the same,
Yea by her Brother's very name,
Had, in her solitude, been cheered.
Beside the lonely watch-tower stood
That gray-haired man of gentle blood,
Who with her Father had grown old
In friendship; rival hunters they,
And fellow-warriors in their day;
To Rylstone he the tidings brought;
Then on this height the Maid had sought,
And, gently as he could, had told
The end of that dire Tragedy,
Which it had been his lot to see.
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