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But slept again, as slowly died

Its thunders on the hill's brown side.


"And is this all," said Jutta stern,
"That thou can'st teach and I can learn ?
Hence! to the land of fog and waste,
There fittest is thine influence placed,
Thou powerless, sluggish Deity!

But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee

Again before so poor a god."

She struck the altar with her rod;
Slight was the touch, as when at need
A damsel stirs her tardy steed;
But to the blow the stone gave place,
And, starting from its balanced base,
Roll'd thundering down the moonlight dell,—
Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell;
Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd,
Their shores the sounding surges lash'd,
And there was ripple, rage, and foam;
But on that lake, so dark and lone,
Placid and pale the moonbeam shone
As Jutta hied her home.

Harold the Bauntless.



GREY towers of Durham! there was once a time
I view'd your battlements with such vague hope,
As brightens life in its first dawning prime;
Not that e'en then came within fancy's scope
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope;
Yet, gazing on the venerable hall,

Her flattering dreams would in perspective ope Some reverend room, some prebendary's stall,And thus Hope me deceived as she deceiveth all.'

Well yet I love thy mix'd and massive piles, Half church of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot, And long to roam these venerable aisles, With records stored of deeds long since forgot; There might I share my Surtees's happier lot, Who leaves at will his patrimonial field To ransack every crypt and hallow'd spot, And from oblivion rend the spoils they yield, Restoring priestly chant and clang of knightly shield.

1 In this stanza occurs one of many touches by which, in the introductory passages of Harold the Dauntless as of Triermain, Sir Walter Scott betrays his half-purpose of identifying the author with his friend William Erskine. That gentleman, the son of an Episcopalian clergyman, a stanch churchman, and a man of the gentlest habits, if he did not in early life design to follow the paterna! profession, might easily be

Vain is the wish-since other cares demand Each vacant hour, and in another clime; But still that northern harp invites my hand, Which tells the wonder of thine earlier time; And fain its numbers would I now command To paint the beauties of that dawning fair, When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand Upon the western heights of Beaurepaire, Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by winding We

Fair on the half-seen streams the sunbeams danced Betraying it beneath the woodland bank, And fair between the Gothic turrets glanced Broad lights, and shadows fell on front and flank, Where tower and buttress rose in martial rank, And girdled in the massive donjon Keep, And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush and bank The matin bell with summons long and deep, And echo answer'd still with long-resounding sweep

The morning mists rose from the ground, Each merry bird awaken'd round,

As if in revelry;

Afar the bugles' clanging sound
Call'd to the chase the lagging hound;
The gale breathed soft and free,

And seem'd to linger on its way
To catch fresh odours from the spray,
And waved it in its wanton play

So light and gamesomely.
The scenes which morning beams reveal,
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel
In all their fragrance round him steal,
It melted Harold's heart of steel,
And, hardly wotting why,
He doff'd his helmet's gloomy pride,
And hung it on a tree beside,

Laid mace and falchion by, And on the greensward sate him down, And from his dark habitual frown Relax'd his rugged browWhoever hath the doubtful task From that stern Dane a boon to ask, Were wise to ask it now.

His place beside young Gunnar took,
And mark'd his master's softening look,
And in his eye's dark mirror spied
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside,
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide

supposed to have nourished such an intention-one which no one could ever have dreamt of ascribing at any period of his days to Sir Walter Scott himself.

2 Robert Surtees of Mainsforth, Esq., F.S.A., anthor of "The History and Antiquities of the County Palatine of Durham." 3 vols. folio, 1816-20-23.

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"Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde,
Offspring of prophetess and bard!
Take harp, and greet this lovely prime
With some high strain of Runic rhyme,
Strong, deep, and powerful! Peal it round
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound,
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay
Of bird and bugle hail the day.
Such was my grandsire Eric's sport,

When dawn gleam'd on his martial court.
Heymar the Scald, with harp's high sound,
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around;
Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear,
They roused like lions from their lair,
Then rush'd in emulation forth
To enhance the glories of the North.-
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race,
Where is thy shadowy resting-place?
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaff'd
From foeman's skull metheglin draught,
Or wanderest where thy cairn was piled
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild?
Or have the milder Christians given
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven?
Where'er thou art, to thee are known
Our toils endured, our trophies won,
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes."
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose.



"HAWK and osprey scream'd for joy
O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy,
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread,
The heath was dyed with darker red,
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son,
Dane and Northman piled the stone;
Singing wild the war-song stern,
'Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn!'

"Where eddying currents foam and boil
By Bersa's burgh and Græmsay's isle,
The seaman sees a martial form
Half-mingled with the mist and storm.

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"Peace," said the Knight, "the noble Scald Our warlike fathers' deeds recall'd,

But never strove to soothe the son
With tales of what himself had done.
At Odin's board the bard sits high
Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery;
But highest he whose daring lay
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say."
With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed
His master's looks, and nought replied-
But well that smile his master led
To construe what he left unsaid.
"Is it to me, thou timid youth,
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth?
My soul no more thy censure grieves
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves.
Say on-and yet-beware the rude
And wild distemper of my blood;
Loth were I that mine ire should wrong
The youth that bore my shield so long,
And who, in service constant still,
Though weak in frame, art strong in will.”—
"Oh!" quoth the page, even there depends
My counsel there my warning tends-
Oft seems as of my master's breast
Some demon were the sudden guest;
Then at the first misconstrued word
His hand is on the mace and sword,
From her firm seat his wisdom driven,
His life to countless dangers given.-
O! would that Gunnar could suffice
To be the fiend's last sacrifice,
So that, when glutted with my gorə,
He fled and tempted thee no more!"


Then waved his hand, and shook his head The impatient Dane, while thus he said:


"Profane not, youth-it is not thine
To judge the spirit of our line-
The bold Berserkar's rage divine,

Through whose inspiring, deeds are wrought
Past human strength and human thought.
When full upon his gloomy soul
The champion feels the influence roll,
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall-
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall-
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes
Singly against a host of foes;

Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds,
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds;
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive,
Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
Then rush the eagles to his cry
Of slaughter and of victory,-

And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl,

Deep drinks his sword,-deep drinks his soul;

And all that meet him in his ire

He gives to ruin, rout, and fire;
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
And couches till he's man agen.-
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb,
When 'gins that rage to overbrim-
Thou know'st when I am moved, and why;
And when thou see'st me roll mine eye,
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute;
But else speak boldly out whate❜er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour;-
So Christian monks are wont to say
Demons of old were charm'd away;
Then fear not I will rashly deem
Ill of thy speech, whate'er the theme."


As down some strait in doubt and dread
The watchful pilot drops the lead,
And, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,
The Page his master's brow observed,
Pausing at intervals to fling

His hand o'er the melodious string,
And to his moody breast apply
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song convey'd the rest.-



"Ill fares the bark with tackle riven, And ill when on the breakers driven,Ill when the storm-sprite shrieks in air, And the scared mermaid tears her hair; But worse when on her helm the hand Of some false traitor holds command.

Ill fares the fainting Palmer, placed
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste,-
Ill when the scorching sun is high,
And the expected font is dry,-

Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath,
The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death.

"Ill fares the Knight with buckler cleft, And ill when of his helm bereft,

Ill when his steed to earth is flung,
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung;
But worse, if instant ruin token,

When he lists rede by woman spoken."

"How now, fond boy?-Canst thou think


Said Harold, "of fair Metelill?"—
"She may be fair," the Page replied,

As through the strings he ranged,"She may be fair; but yet," he cried, And then the strain he changed,

"She may be fair," he sang, "but yet
Far fairer have I seen
Than she, for all her locks of jet,

And eyes so dark and sheen.
Were I a Danish knight in arms,

As one day 1 may be, My heart should own no foreign charms,A Danish maid for me.

"I love my fathers' northern land,

Where the dark pine-trees grow, And the bold Baltic's echoing strand Looks o'er each grassy oe.1

I love to mark the lingering sun,
From Denmark loth to go,
And leaving on the billows bright,
To cheer the short-lived summer night,
A path of ruddy glow.

"But most the northern maid I love,

With breast like Denmark's snow, And form as fair as Denmark's pine, Who loves with purple heath to twine Her locks of sunny glow; And sweetly blend that shade of gold With the cheek's rosy hue, And Faith might for her mirror hold That eye of matchless blue.


"Tis hers the manly sports to love

That southern maidens fear, To bend the bow by stream and grove,

And lift the hunter's spear. She can her chosen champion's flight With eye undazzled see, Clasp him victorious from the strife, Or on his corpse yield up her life,— A Danish maid for me!"


Then smiled the Dane "Thou canst so well The virtues of our maidens tell,

Half could I wish my choice had been

Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen,
And lofty soul;-yet what of ill
Hast thou to charge on Metelill?"—
"Nothing on her," 1
Gunnar said,
"But her base sire's ignoble trade.
Her mother, too-the general fame
Hath given to Jutta evil name,
And in her grey eye is a flame

Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame.-
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honour'd footsteps sought,
And twice return'd with such ill rede

As sent thee on some desperate deed.”—


"Thou errest; Jutta wisely said,
He that comes suitor to a maid,
Ere link'd in marriage, should provide
Lands and a dwelling for his bride-
My father's, by the Tyne and Wear,
I have reclaim'd."-" O, all too dear,
And all too dangerous the prize,

E'en were it won," young Gunnar cries ;-
"And then this Jutta's fresh device,
That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane,
From Durham's priests a boon to gain,
When thou hast left their vassals slain
In their own halls!"-Flash'd Harold's eye,
Thunder'd his voice-" False Page, you lie !
The castle, hall and tower, is mine,
Built by old Witikind on Tyne.
The wild-cat will defend his den,
Fights for her nest the timid wren;
And think'st thou I'll forego my right
For dread of monk or monkish knight ?—

"Nothing on her," is the reading of the interleaved copy f1831-" On her nought," in all the former editions.

"All is hush'd, and still as death-'tis dreadful!
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight. The tombs

Up and away, that deepening bell
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell.
Thither will I, in manner due,
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue;
And, if to right me they are loth,
Then woe to church and chapter both!"
Now shift the scene, and let the curtain fall,
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's hall.

Harold the Dauntless.



FULL many a bard hath sung the solemn gloom Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribb'd roof, O'er-canopying shrine, and gorgeous tomb, Carved screen, and altar glimmering far aloof, And blending with the shade-a matchless proof Of high devotion, which hath now wax'd cold; 2 Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute hoof Intruded oft within such sacred fold,

Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in his fane of old."

Well pleased am 1, howe'er, that when the route Of our rude neighbours whilome deign'd to come, Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep out And cleanse our chancel from the rags of Rome, They spoke not on our ancient fane the doom To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their own, But spared the martyr'd saint and storied tomb, Though papal miracles had graced the stone, And though the aisles still loved the organ's swelling


And deem not, though 'tis now my part to paint A Prelate sway'd by love of power and gold, That all who wore the mitre of our Saint Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold; Since both in modern times and days of old It sate on those whose virtues might atone Their predecessors' frailties trebly told : Matthew and Morton we as such may ownAnd such (if fame speak truth) the honour'd Barring ton.1

And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart."

CONGREVE'S Mourning Bride, Act il. Scene 1. See also Joanna Baillie's "De Montfort," Acts iv. and v. 3 See, in the Apocryphal Books, "The History of Bel and the Dragon."

4 See, for the lives of Bishop Matthew and Bishop Morton, here alluded to, Mr. Surtees's History of the Bishopric of Durham: the venerable Shute Barrington, their honoured successor, ever a kind friend of Sir Walter Scott, died in 1826



But now to earlier and to ruder times,
As subject meet, I tune my rugged rhymes,
Telling how fairly the chapter was met,
And rood and books in seemly order set;
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the hand
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd,
Now on fair carved desk display'd,
'Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid.
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced,
And quaint devices interlaced,

A labyrinth of crossing rows,
The roof in lessening arches shows;
Beneath its shade placed proud and high,
With footstool and with canopy,
Sate Aldingar, and prelate ne'er

More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's chair;
Canons and deacons were placed below,
In due degree and lengthen'd row.
Unmoved and silent each sat there,
Like image in his oaken chair;

Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd,
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard;
And of their eyes severe alone
The twinkle show'd they were not stone.


The Prelate was to speech address'd,
Each head sunk reverent on each breast;
But ere his voice was heard-without
Arose a wild tumultuous shout,
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear,
Such as in crowded streets we hear
Hailing the flames, that, bursting out,
Attract yet scare the rabble rout.
Ere it had ceased, a giant hand
Shook oaken door and iron band,
Till oak and iron both gave way,
Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray,
And, ere upon angel or saint they can call,
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of the hall.


"Now save ye, my masters, both rocket and rood,
From Bishop with mitre to Deacon with hood!
For here stands Count Harold, old Witikind's son,
Come to sue for the lands which his ancestors won.'
The Prelate look'd round him with sore troubled eye,
Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny ;

To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,

For the service Saint Cuthbert's bless'd banner to bear,
When the bands of the North come to foray the Wear;
Then disturb not our conclave with wrangling or

But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye came."


Loud laugh'd the stern Pagan,-" They're free from
the care

Of fief and of service, both Conyers and Vere,-
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need,
A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead.-
Ho, Gunnar!-the tokens ;"-and, sever'd anew,
A head and a hand on the altar he threw.
Then shudder'd with terror both Canon and Monk,
They knew the glazed eye and the countenance

And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled hair,
And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic Vere.
There was not a churchman or priest that was there,
But grew pale at the sight, and betook him to prayer.


Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of fear:
"Was this the hand should your banner bear
Was that the head should wear the casque
In battle at the Church's task?
Was it to such you gave the place
Of Harold with the heavy mace?
Find me between the Wear and Tyne
A knight will wield this club of mine,-
Give him my fiefs, and I will say
There's wit beneath the cowl of grey."
He raised it, rough with many a stain,
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting brain;
He wheel'd it that it shrilly sung,

And the aisles echo'd as it swung,

Then dash'd it down with sheer descent,

And split King Osric's monument.

"How like ye this music? How trow ye the hand
That can wield such a mace may be reft of its land!
No answer-I spare ye a space to agree,
And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if he be.
Ten strides through your chancel, ten strokes on your

And again I am with you-grave fathers, farewell."


While each Canon and Deacon who heard the Dane He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd the on speak,

To be safely at home would have fasted a week:-
Then Aldingar roused him, and answer'd again,
"Thou suest for a boon which thou canst not obtain;
The Church hath no fiefs for an unchristen'd Dane.
Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath given,
That the priests of a chantry might hymn him to
heaver. ;

And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd as his due,
Have lapsed to the Church, and been granted anew


And the clang of his stride died away on the floor;
And his head from his bosom the Prelate uprears
With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost disappears
"Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give me your


For never of counsel had Bishop more need!
Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and in bone,
The language, the look, and the laugh were his


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