---

Walter Scott - Rokeby: Canto V.
Work rating: Low

1 2 
Matilda saw—for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defined 
On the fair hemisphere reclined, 
That, pencill`d on its azure pure, 
The eye could count each embrazure, 
Now, swath`d within the sweeping cloud, 
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud; 
Till, from each loop-hole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
And, gathering to united glare, 
Streams high into the midnight air; 
A dismal beacon, far and wide 
That waken`d Greta`s slumbering side. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long, 
And pendant arch, the fire flash`d strong, 
Snatching whatever could maintain, 
Raise, or extend, its furious reign; 
Startling, with closer cause of dread, 
The females who the conflict fled, 
And now rush`d forth upon the plain, 
Filling the air with clamours vain. 

XXXV. 
But, ceased not yet, the Hall within, 
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din, 
Till bursting lattices give proof 
The flames have caught the rafter`d roof. 
What! wait they till its beams amain 
Crash on the slayers and the slain? 
The alarm is caught—the drawbridge falls, 
The warriors hurry from the walls, 
But, by the conflagration`s light, 
Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
Each straggling felon down was hew`d, 
Not one could gain the sheltering wood; 
But forth the affrighted harper sprung, 
And to Matilda`s robe he clung. 
Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 
Stopp`d the pursuer`s lifted hand. 
Denzil and he alive were ta`en; 
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

XXXVI. 
And where is Bertram?—soaring high, 
The general flame ascends the sky; 
In gather`d group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze, 
When, like infernal demon, sent 
Red from his penal element, 
To plague and to pollute the air, 
His face all gore, on fire his hair, 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram broke! 
His brandish`d sword on high lie rears, 
Then plunged among opposing spears; 
Round his left arm his mantle truss`d, 
Received and foil`d three lances` thrust; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood, 
Like reeds he snapp`d the tough ash-wood. 
In vain his foes around him clung; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest,—as the bull, at bay, 
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way, 
Through forty foes his path he made, 
And safely gain`d the forest glade. 

XXXVII. 
Scarce was this final conflict o`er, 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 
Had in the fatal Hall been left, 
Deserted there by all his train; 
But Redmond saw, and turn`d again. 
Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam`d ruddy brown, 
And then his mantle`s clasp undid; 
Matilda held his drooping head, 
Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
Returning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh,- 
I could have wish`d even thus to die!" 
No more he said—for now with speed 
Each trooper had regain`d his steed; 
The ready palfreys stood array`d, 
For Redmond and for Rokeby`s Maid; 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein. 
But oft Matilda look`d behind, 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind, 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon`d the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them spread, 
The clouded heaven lower`d bloody red; 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appear`d to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
Each rushing down with thunder sound, 
A space the conflagration drown`d; 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announced its triumph in its close, 
Shook wide its light the landscape o`er, 
Then sunk-and Rokeby was no more!
Source
The script ran 0.006 seconds.