In doubt one moment Dayrell sate,
Then bade his comrades fire the gate,
And pile the conflagration high
With pine boughs from the grove hard by.
The pyre complete, the spark applied,
The foremost outlaws stand aside,
And wait, impatient of its speed,
The fiery issue of their deed;
But, sudden as the flight of hail,
When summer storms the woods assail,
Loud crashed the hazel thickets deep,
As when tornadoes through them sweep;
They part, as to their steeds they sprung
The outlaws, and to saddle swung,
As, issuing from the leafy shade,
A hundred troopers crowd the glade
In full career, their sabres flashing,
And straight upon the gateway dashing.
To stay to fight were but to die,
Guy Dayrell bids his comrades fly,
He sees them flying in hot haste,
And, deeming he himself is last,
Spurs his good steed and follows fast.
But Bryan rides with face to foe,
And reckless deals the deadly blow;
Around him throng the gathering foes,
Full fain, yet daring not, to close;
Already fails the direst press,
And chargers four are riderless,
When rears his steed in wild affright,
And Bryan falls, and all is night.
How fared his friends? 'tis briefly told;
They reached untracked their cavern hold;
All day they waited on in gloom,
Hoping to hear their comrade come;
They called at night, in thickets round,
More loud than wont, their signal sound;
Each told his tale, 'twas all the same,
Nor news, nor Bryan ever came.
THE CAPTIVE'S DREAM-KNARESBURGH.
BENEATH Kenaresburgh's stately keep,
Rough hewn in rock, a dungeon deep
Her weary captives holds ;
Above, the broad red standard flies,
And bravely to the summer skies
Spreads wide its ample folds;
All gay above, all gloom below,
The helpless prisoners nurse their woe,
Uncaring for their fate;
Bent forms with hollow eyes are there,
Grown wan with dungeon light and air,
And quiet converse with despair,
And pondering on their state;
In tears they pine; soon tears will fail,
And silence yield to childish wail,
And wail to cheerless death;
From rusty chain and noisome den
Reprieved awhile to light, and then.
The charnel ground beneath.
Apart from these foredoomed to die
By sure and slow captivity,
In little cell, whose lowering roof
To urchin's play might give reproof;
So close its walls of morticed stone,
If two must pass, 'tis one by one,
And floor so jointed that the eye
No crevice 'mid the gloom may spy,
A prisoner lay, of stalwart mould,
Outstretched upon the pavement cold,
Supine and motionless; alas!
Awaiting outlaw's doom he was.
His sinewy limbs no cords enthrall,
No fetters bind him to the wall;
For e'en if Bryan's strength had broke
Wide opening through the walls of rock,
He only for his pains would win,
And still would be immured within
The castle's court, and ready blade
Would end for aye his escapade;
Twice bound with walls of stone, the cell
Secures its inmate all too well.
All day lay Bryan motionless,
Unknowing of his strong duress ;
The evening came, and still he slept,
No useless watch around him kept;
The moon sank low, the dewy air
Entered and shed its burden there;
The chill through all his frame is stealing,
And waking life, though slow, revealing;
His limbs their burden indicate
In movements inarticulate,
And strive, as one who, being free,
Dreams only of lost liberty.
Dreams Bryan, but the nearer past
Is from his memory erased,
And incidents of recent life,
The pains and perils of the strife
Are not upon the mirrored scene
Of what life was, and he had been.
The further past is all he sees,
Instinct with painful images;
Boyhood and early prime appear
In glowing pictures, all too clear,
And in them all is Godfrey there;
Now high on Godfrey's shoulders borne
To see the reapers in the corn,
Now hand in hand, in summer fields,
Where every step its interest yields.
Anon, he rides with Fairfax forth,
And Godfrey's fears are nothing worth,
As gaily to the war he fared,
And thrilled with peril, known and dared,
While Godfrey, resolutely calm,
Grows gray with dread of coming harm.
Weary and faint at last he was,
Outstretched among the summer grass,
Yet chill and drear the breezes blow,
And deeply falls the wintry snow;
He feels his throbbing pulse grow still,
And limbs refuse to do his will;
Hardens his frame to icy stone,
And all of life, save thought, is gone,
Intensest thought for being free
To know its useless liberty,
And feel whene'er to act it strives,
Thought only for itself survives.
Not long he lay in such duress
Of conscious, dreaming helplessness;
His summer couch is now a bier
Standing beside his sepulchre,
And all he is the morrow's light
Will hide for aye from human sight;
'Tis Death—And yet he seems to hear—
Without the night is chill and drear—
Strange sounds that issue from below,
Unearthly sounds of pain and woe,
That slowly, as by effort great,
Grow into words articulate.
He strives to hear-'tis Godfrey's tone
That issues from the chilling stone;
"Bryan, awake! 'tis Godfrey come
To save thee from an outlaw's doom;
Bryan, awake! " He tries to wake,
And answer to the summons make;
Yet still he sleeps, though restless now,
Great drops are gathering on his brow;
His limbs convulse with sudden start,
And life returns through every part ;
Strong agony his frame released,
But all too late, the sounds had ceased.
Instinctive, whilst his dream was breaking,
He grasped his brow to still its aching,
Athwart his cheek his hand he swept,
For e'en in sleep had Bryan wept;
He spoke, but answer came there none,
He touched his couch, but it was stone;
The roof he felt, and either wall
And they were granite, one and all;
The clammy dew, the hideous gloom
The dream explained-it is his tomb.
And yet no grave-clothes does he wear,
No tokens of the dead are there;
With pain he rose, and tried to explore
His sepulchre, and found the door,
And it was stone, a mighty block,
Hewn from a bed of slaty rock;
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