I. 
When Denmark's raven soar'd on high, 
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky, 
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke, 
And the broad shadow of her wing 
Blacken'd each cataract and spring, 
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source, 
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force; 
Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name, 
Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone, 
And gave their Gods the land they won. 
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, 
And one sweet brooklet's silver line, 
And Woden's Croft did title gain 
From the stern Father of the Slain; 
But to the Monarch of the Mace, 
That held in fight the foremost place, 
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse, 
Near Stratforth high they paid their vows, 
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame, 
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. 

II. 
Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween, 
Who gave that soft and quiet scene, 
With all its varied light and shade, 
And every little sunny glade, 
And the blithe brook that strolls along 
Its pebbled bed with summer song, 
To the grim God of blood and scar, 
The grisly King of Northern War. 
O, better were its banks assign'd 
To spirits of a gentler kind! 
For where the thicket-groups recede, 
And the rath primrose decks the mead, 
The velvet grass seems carpet meet 
For the light fairies' lively feet. 
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown, 
Might make proud Oberon a throne, 
While, hidden in the thicket nigh, 
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly; 
And where profuse the wood-vetch clings 
Round ash and elm, in verdant rings, 
Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower 
Should canopy Titania's bower. 

III. 
Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade; 
But, skirting every sunny glade, 
In fair variety of green 
The woodland lends its sylvan screen. 
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak, 
Its boughs by weight of ages broke; 
And towers erect, in sable spire, 
The pine-tree scathed by lightning-fire; 
The drooping ash and birch, between, 
Hang their fair tresses o'er the green, 
And all beneath, at random grow 
Each coppice dwarf of varied show, 
Or, round the stems profusely twined, 
Fling summer odours on the wind. 
Such varied group Urbino's hand 
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd, 
What time he bade proud Athens own 
On Mar's Mount the God Unknown! 
Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, 
Though bent by age, in spirit high: 
There rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear, 
There Grecian Beauty bent to hear, 
While Childhood at her foot was placed, 
Or clung delighted to her waist. 

IV. 
'And rest we here,' Matilda said, 
And sat her in the varying shade. 
'Chance-met, we well may steal an hour 
To friendship due from fortune's power. 
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
Thy counsel to thy sister-friend; 
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest, 
No farther urge thy desperate quest. 
For to my care a charge is left, 
Dangerous to one of aid bereft, 
Wellnigh an orphan, and alone, 
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown.' 
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, 
Beside her on the turf she placed; 
Then paused, with downcast look and eye, 
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. 
Her conscious diffidence he saw, 
Drew backward as in modest awe, 
And sat a little space removed, 
Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved. 

V. 
Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair 
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 
Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
The rose, with faint and feeble streak, 
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, 
That you had said her hue was pale; 
But if she faced the summer gale, 
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, 
Or heard the praise of those she loved, 
Or when of interest was express'd 
Aught that waked feeling in her breast, 
The mantling blood in ready play 
Rivall'd the blush of rising day. 
There was a soft and pensive grace, 
A cast of thought upon her face, 
That suited well the forehead high, 
The eyelash dark, and downcast eye; 
The mild expression spoke a mind 
In duty firm, composed, resign'd;- 
â??Tis that which Roman art has given, 
To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven. 
In hours of sport, that mood gave way 
To Fancy's light and frolic play; 
And when the dance, or tale, or song, 
In harmless mirth sped time along, 
Full oft her doting sire would call 
His Maud the merriest of them all. 
But days of war, and civil crime, 
Allow'd but ill such festal time, 
And her soft pensiveness of brow 
Had deepen'd into sadness now. 
In Marston field her father ta'en, 
Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain, 
While every ill her soul foretold, 
From Oswald's thirst of power and