And visage like the headsman's rude

That pauses for the sign.

"O mark thee with the blessed rood,"

The Page implored; "Speak word of good,
Resist the fiend, or be subdued!"

He sign'd the cross divine-
Instant his eye hath human light,
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright;
His brow relax'd the obdurate frown,
The fatal mace sinks gently down,
He turns and strides away;

Yet oft, like revellers who leave
Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve,
As if repenting the reprieve

He granted to his prey.

Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he given, And fierce Witikind's son made one step towards heaven.

XVIII.

But though his dreaded footsteps part,
Death is behind and shakes his dart;
Lord William on the plain is lying,
Beside him Metelill seems dying!-
Bring odours-essences in haste-
And lo! a flasket richly chased,-
But Jutta the elixir proves
Ere pouring it for those she loves-
Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted,
For when three drops the hag had tasted,

So dismal was her yell,

Each bird of evil omen woke,
The raven gave his fatal croak,

And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak,
The screech-owl from the thicket broke,
And flutter'd down the dell !
So fearful was the sound and stern,
The slumbers of the full-gorged erne
Were startled, and from furze and fern

Of forest and of fell,

The fox and famish'd wolf replied,
(For wolves then prowl'd the Cheviot side.)
From mountain head to mountain head
The unhallow'd sounds around were sped;1
But when their latest echo fled,

The sorceress on the ground lay dead.

XIX.

Such was the scene of blood and woes, With which the bridal morn arose

Of William and of Metelill; But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread, The summer morn peeps dim and red Above the eastern hill, Ere, bright and fair, upon his road The King of Splendour walks abroad; So, when this cloud had pass'd away,

1 See a note on the Lord of the Isles, Canto v. st. 31, p. 449,

ante

Bright was the noontide of their day And all serene its setting ray.

Harald the Bauntless.

WELL do I hope that this my minstrel tale
Will tempt no traveller from southern fields,
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail,

To view the Castle of these Seven Proud Shields.
Small confirmation its condition yields
To Meneville's high lay,-No towers are seen
On the wild heath, but those that Fancy builds,
And, save a fosse that tracks the moor with green,
Is nought remains to tell of what may there have been.

And yet grave authors, with the no small waste
Of their grave time, have dignified the spot
By theories, to prove the fortress placed
By Roman bands, to curb the invading Scot.
Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I might quote,
But rather choose the theory less civil

Of boors, who, origin of things forgot,
Refer still to the origin of evil,

And for their master-mason choose that master-fiend the Devil.

1

Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built towers
That stout Count Harold bent his wondering gaze,
When evening dew was on the heather flowers,
And the last sunbeams made the mountain blaze,
And tinged the battlements of other days
With the bright level light ere sinking down.-
Illumined thus, the Dauntless Dane surveys

The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the portal frown, And on their blazons traced high marks of old renown.

A wolf North Wales had on his armour-coat,
And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag;
Strath-Clwyd's strange emblem was a stranded boat,
Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag;

A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag;
A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn;
Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag
Surmounted by a cross-such signs were borne
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn

These scann'd, Count Harold sought the castle-door,
Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to decay;
Yet till that hour adventurous knight forbore
The unobstructed passage to essay.

For whom the bride's shy footstep, slow and light,
Was changed ere morning to the murderer's tread.
For human bliss and woe in the frail thread

Of human life are all so closely twined,
That till the shears of Fate the texture shred,
The close succession cannot be disjoin'd,

Nor dare we, from one hour, judge that which coines behind.

VI.

But where the work of vengeance had been done. In that seventh chamber, was a sterner sight; There of the witch-brides lay each skeleton, Still in the posture as to death when dight. For this lay prone, by one blow slain outright; And that, as one who struggled long in dying; One bony hand held knife, as if to smite; One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy crying; One lay across the door, as kill'd in act of flying.'

The stern Dane smiled this charnel-house to

see,

For his chafed thought return'd to Metelill;-
And "Well," he said, "hath woman's perfidy,
Empty as air, as water volatile,
Been here avenged-The origin of ill
Through woman rose, the Christian doctrine
saith:

Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel skill
Can show example where a woman's breath
Hath made a true-love vow, and, tempted, kept her
faith."

VII.

The minstrel-boy half smiled, half sigh❜d,
And his half-filling eyes he dried,
And said, "The theme I should but wrong,
Unless it were my dying song,

(Our Scalds have said, in dying hour
The Northern harp has treble power,)
Else could I tell of woman's faith,
Defying danger, scorn, and death.
Firm was that faith,-as diamond stone
Pure and unflaw'd,-her love unknown,
And unrequited;-firm and pure,
Her stainless faith could all endure;
From clime to clime,-from place to place,-
Through want, and danger, and disgrace,
A wanderer's wayward steps could trace.~
All this she did, and guerdon none
Required, save that her burial-stone
Should make at length the secret knowu,
'Thus hath a faithful woman done.'-

until some hundred years after the era of the poem, and many of the scenes described, like that last quoted, (stanzas iv. v. vi.) belong even to a still later period. At least this defect is not an imitation of Mr. Scott, who, being a skilful antiquary, is extremely careful as to niceties of this sort."—Critical Re

Not in each breast such truth is laid, But Eivir was a Danish maid."

VIII.

"Thou art a wild enthusiast," said
Count Harold, " for thy Danish maid;
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own
Hers were a faith to rest upon.
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone,
And all resembling her are gone.
What maid e'er show'd such constancy
In plighted faith, like thine to me?

But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade
Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd
Because the dead are by.
They were as we; our little day
O'erspent, and we shall be as they.
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid,
Thy couch upon my mantle made,
That thou mayst think, should fear invade,
Thy master slumbers nigh."

Thus couch'd they in that dread abode,
Until the beams of dawning glow'd.

But when he learn'd the dubious close,
He blush'd like any opening rose,
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek,
Hied back that glove of mail to seek;
When soon a shriek of deadly dread
Summon'd his master to his aid.

XIII.

What sees Count Harold in that bower, So late his resting-place?—

The semblance of the Evil Power,

Adored by all his race!
Odin in living form stood there,
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear;
For plumy crest a meteor shed
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head,
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty
To the wild lightnings of his eye.
Such height was his, as when in stone
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown:

So flow'd his hoary beard;
Such was his lance of mountain-pine,
So did his sevenfold buckler shine ;-
But when his voice he rear'd,
Deep, without harshness, slow and strong,
The powerful accents roll'd along,
And, while he spoke, his hand was laid
On captive Gunnar's shrinking head.

XIV. "Harold," he said, "what rage is thine, To quit the worship of thy line,

To leave thy Warrior-God?— With me is glory or disgrace, Mine is the onset and the chase, Embattled hosts before my face

Are wither'd by a nod.

Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat
Deserved by many a dauntless feat,
Among the heroes of thy line,
Eric and fiery Thorarine ?—
Thou wilt not. Only I can give
The joys for which the valiant live,
Victory and vengeance-only I
Can give the joys for which they die,
The immortal tilt-the banquet full,
The brimming draught from foeman's skull.
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove,
The faithful pledge of vassal's love."-

XV.

"Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart,

I charge thee, hence! whate'er thou art,

I do defy thee-and resist

The kindling frenzy of my breast,
Waked by thy words; and of my mail,

1 Mr. Adolphus, in his Letters on the Author of Waverley, p. 230, remarks on the coincidence between "the catastrophe of The Black Dwarf,' the recognition of Mortham's lost son

Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail,
Shall rest with thee-that youth release,
And God, or Demon, part in peace."-

Eivir," the Shape replied, " is mine, Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign. Think'st thou that priest with drops of sproy Could wash that blood-red mark away'

Or that a borrow'd sex and name

Can abrogate a Godhead's claim ?"

Thrill'd this strange speech through Harold's

brain,

He clench'd his teeth in high disdain,
For not his new-born faith subdued
Some tokens of his ancient mood.-
"Now, by the hope so lately given
Of better trust and purer heaven,

I will assail thee, fiend!"-Then rose
His mace, and with a storm of blows
The mortal and the Demon close.

XVI.

Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around,
Darken'd the sky and shook the ground;
But not the artillery of hell,
The bickering lightning, nor the rock
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock,
Could Harold's courage quell.
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept,
And blows on blows resistless heap'd,
Till quail'd that Demon Form,
And-for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will-—

Evanish'd in the storm.

Nor paused the Champion of the North, But raised, and bore his Eivir forth, From that wild scene of fiendish strife, To light, to liberty, and life!

XVII.

He placed her on a bank of moss,
A silver runnel bubbled by,
And new-born thoughts his soul engrosc,
And tremors yet unknown across

His stubborn sinews fly,

The while with timid hand the dew
Upon her brow and neck he threw,
And mark'd how life with rosy hue
On her pale cheek revived anew,

And glimmer'd in her eye.
Inly he said, "That silken tress,-
What blindness mine that could not guess!
Or how could page's rugged dress

That bosom's pride belie?

O, dull of heart, through wild and wave
In search of blood and death to rave,
With such a partner nigh!"

in the Irish orphan of 'Rokeby,' and the conversion of Ha rold's page into a female,"—all which he calls "specimens of unsuccessful contrivance, at a great expense of probability."

XVIII.

Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, The stains of recent conflict clear'd,

And thus the Champion proved, That he fears now who never fear'd,

And loves who never loved.
And Eivir-life is on her cheek,
And yet she will not move or speak,
Nor will her eyelid fully ope;
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye,
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy,
Affection's opening dawn to spy;

And the deep blush, which bids its dye
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly,
Speaks shame-facedness and hope.

XIX.

But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,-
For words, save those of wrath and wrong,
Till now were strangers to his tongue;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said,
("Twere well that maids, when lovers woo,
Heard none more soft, were all as true,)

"Eivir! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,

A Christian knight and Christian bride;
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be said,
That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed."

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid? And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow! No need to turn the page, as if 'twere lead, Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow.Be cheer'd-'tis ended-and I will not borrow, To try thy patience more, one anecdote From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note.'

"Harold the Dauntless,' like The Bridal of Triermain,' is a tolerably successful imitation of some parts of the style of Mr. Walter Scott; but, like all imitations, it is clearly distinguishable from the prototype; it wants the life and seasoning of originality. To illustrate this familiarly from the stage:-We have all witnessed a hundred imitations of popular actors-of Kemble, for instance, in which the voice, the gesture, and somewhat even of the look, were copied. In externals the resemblance might be sufficiently correct; but where was the informing soul, the mind that dictated the action and expression? Who could endure the tedium of seeing the imitator go through a whole character? In Harold the Dauntless,' the imitation of Mr. Scott is pretty obvious, but we are weary of it before we arrive near the end. The author has talent, and considerable facility in versification, and on this account it is somewhat lamentable, not only that he should not have selected a better model, but that he should copy the parts of that model which are least worthy of study. Perhaps it was not easy to equal the energy of Mr. Scott's line, or his picturesque descriptions. His peculiarities and defects were more attainable, and with these the writer of this novel in verse has generally contented himself; he will also content a certain number of readers, who merely look for a few amusing or surprising incidents. In these, however, 'Harold the Dauntless' does not abound so much as 'The Bridal of Triermain.' They are, indeed, romantic enough to satisfy all the parlour-boarders of ladies' schools in England; but they want that appearance of probability which should give them interest."-Critical Review, April, 1817.

"We had formerly occasion to notice, with considerable praise, The Bridal of Triermain. We remarked it as a pretty close imitation of Mr. Scott's poetry; and as that great master seems, for the present, to have left his lyre unstrung, a substitute, even of inferior value, may be welcomed by the public. It appears to us, however, and still does, that the merit of the present author consists rather in the soft and wildly tender

passages, than in those rougher scenes of feud and fray, through which the poet of early times conducts his reader. His war horse follows with somewhat of a hobbling pace the proud and impetuous courser whom he seeks to rival. Unfortunately, as it appears to us, the last style of poetical excellence is rather more aimed at here than in the former poem; and as we do not discover any improvement in the mode of treating it, Harold the Dauntless scarcely appears to us to equal the Bridal of Triermain. It contains, indeed, passages of similar merit, but not quite so numerous; and such, we suspect, will ever be the case while the author continues to follow after this line of poetry."-Scots Mag., Feb. 1817.

"This is an elegant, sprightly, and delightful little poem, written apparently by a person of taste and genius, but who either possesses not the art of forming and combining a plot, or regards it only as a secondary and subordinate object. In this we do not widely differ from him, but are sensible, meantime, that many others will; and that the rambling and uncertain nature of the story will be the principal objection urged against the poem before us, as well as the greatest bar to its extensive popularity. The character of Mr. Scott's romances has effected a material change in our mode of estimating poetical compositions. In all the estimable works of our former poets, from Spenser down to Thomson and Cowper, the plot seems to have been regarded as good or bad, only in proportion to the advantages which it furnished for poetical description; but, of late years, one half, at least, of the merit of a poem is supposed to rest on the interest and management of the tale.

We speak not exclusively of that numerous class of readers who peruse and estimate a new poem, or any poem, with the same feelings, and precisely on the same principles, as they do a novel. It is natural for such persons to judge only by the effect produced by the incidents; but we have often been surprised that some of our literary critics, even those to whose judgment we were most disposed to bow, should 'ny so much