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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