Where, motionless as sculptured stone, Lay Bryan, speechless and undone.
No word of pity Godfrey said, No tear his bloodshot eyeball shed ; One look of withering scorn he cast, As one who deems such look the last, And parts his future from his past; That look bespoke a heart o'erstrung By an inexpiable wrong.
So the proud monarch of the glade, By comrade of his blood betrayed, Turns on the tame deceit an eye Whose mingled scorn and agony O'ermastering Terror's fluttering glow The tumult in his bosom shew. He feels the death-shaft in his side, The ebbing of his life-blood's tide, The torture of the rankling dart Strike through his frame to every part; Though barbed the shaft a foe might wing, False friendship gave the poisoned sting That charged with living flame each vein, And wrought the fury in the brain. Forgot the wound, the mortal smart In anguish of his breaking heart, Till drooping head and eye grown dim, And pain contracting every limb, Convulsive sob and choking breath O'erpowering scorn with dread of death, Recall the instincts of his kind
To perils scorn had chased from mind, And terror of the accursed spot Impels the flight till now forgot, And wakes his dying strength to seek Security in copse or brake.
ESCAPE FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD.
ONE glance of fierce, relentless scorn- It seemed of hate and horror born, And scarce of human birth— From Godfrey's eye on Bryan fell, Such lurid light as poets tell Flares from the jaws of nearer hell To bounds of nether earth. That scornful glance, that eyelid dry Knew naught of ruth or sympathy, Nor aught of fear, as Godfrey cast
His eye o'er Marston's blood-stained waste, Then spurred his steed and turned to fly, For troops of Roundheads hovered nigh The spot where Bryan fell,
And, darting from the seething crowd, Where now the last resistance showed Its valour all too well,
A score of Bryan's comrades leap With threats of vengeance loud and deep To avenge the yeoman's death And dye, ere Godfrey quit the plain, Their steel with the avenging stain, And lay the slayer with the slain On Marston's dreary heath.
And, foremost of the spurring crowd, Silent and grim Guy Dayrell rode; His stout long-sword from point to hilt Shone ruddy, by the carnage gilt;
Rider and horse all splashed with gore From comb to hoof might well give o'er, Yet still one task remains undone Ere Marston seems to Dayrell won, And Bryan stretched upon the plain Wakes all his ebbing fire again; Full well he knew the flying steed, His colour and his Slingsby breed, And well he knew 'twere hopeless race Against such steed to urge the chase, Had he not marked the herbage dyed, The streaming flank, the laboured stride. That promised to his practised eye An early close of life was nigh. Then treasured hate of Scriven's squire Filled every limb with instant ire And keener spurring than before In fierce pursuit Guy Dayrell tore Through Tockwith's silent street, Where hushed and pale each village wight List to the thunders of the fight,
And rush of flying feet,
And deemed as Dayrell swept along, Death's angel strode their homes among; So much of vengeance in the clang Of Dayrell's steel-shod charger rang; So much of Death was on the moor, They heard him at each shuddering door, They heard him at the lattice pane, They heard him in the shrieking vane, And sought in undisguised affright Safe shelter both from sound and sight.
But Dayrell saw not, heeded not The terror his wild speed begot;
The foe in front, his friends behind Filled to the full both eye and mind; With every nerve and sinew strained His headlong course he still maintained, And oft he deemed the race was won, And Godfrey's flight was well-nigh done, Yet ever as the chase drew nigh The gallant steed instinctively
Sprang, ere the spur could wound his side, Or Godfrey's parting lips could chide, And flew like arrow down the wind, And left the toiling chase behind. And oft Guy Dayrell marked him leap
Where streams were broad and banks were steep, And, spite of pain, his dauntless heart Dare nerve and limb to do its part; And still new strength he ever found To speed the rush or wing the bound, Though stumbling, to his knee he sank All trembling on the further bank; Yet ever from the fall he sprung, As if his heart with shame was stung, Stretched his brave limbs to fullest length, And proved once more his utmost strength.
Nor was the confidence betrayed Which Godfrey in his steed displayed; The hand as soft on bridle rein As maiden's touch to plaintive strain, Availed to guide the reeling steed In safety o'er each treacherous mead; Rider and horse instinctive knew All that each dared or strove to do; Each seemed responsive unto each, Each naught to learn and naught to teach,
Save where the brighter tints revealed To human ken the marsh concealed, Or osiers by the distant burn
Warned Godfrey where his course to turn; E'en then he shrunk from needless pain, And gently drew the guiding rein,
As ladies stretch the silken skein, With quick though kind suggestion The perils of the path to shun. The touch, as light as summer spell, His rider's wish reveals full well,
Through his brave heart that purpose thrills, His limbs with willing service fills,
And guides unerringly to safer ground
More surely far than chiding stroke or wound.
The sun was reddening all the west With promise, ere he sank to rest Of tranquil morn and cloudless morrow To chide revering Nature's sorrow; With ruddiest tint the foliage glowed, Each leaf as tinged with Marston's blood Shewed Nature's mournful sympathy For England in her agony;
But all unseen by eye or mind Of Godfrey or his foe behind, Each on his charger's course intent, Nor eye nor mind to Nature lent, Nor heeded Cowthorpe's giant shade, Save that it marked the progress made, And told unerringly and true, How much was done or left to do.
Though fails at length with mutual fear The swiftness of their first career,
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