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 comes 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.1

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 known,
Thus hath a faithful woman done.'-

1 "In an invention like this we are hardly to look for probabilities, but all these preparations and ornaments are not quite consistent with the state of society two hundred years before the Danish Invasion, as far as we know any thing of it. In these matters, however, the author is never very scrupulous, and has too little regarded propriety in the minor circumstan

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.

IX.

An alter'd man Lord Harold rose,
When he beheld that dawn unclose-
There's trouble in his eyes,
And traces on his brow and cheek
Of mingled awe and wonder speak:

"My page," he said, “arise ;— Leave we this place, my page."-No more He utter'd till the castle door

They cross'd-but there he paused and said,
"My wildness hath awaked the dead-
Disturb'd the sacred tomb!
Methought this night I stood on high,
Where Hecla roars in middle sky,
And in her cavern'd gulfs could spy

The central place of doom;
And there before my mortal eye
Souls of the dead came flitting by,
Whom fiends, with many a fiendish cry,
Bore to that evil den!

My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain
Was wilder'd, as the elvish train,
With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain
Those who had late been men.

X.

"With haggard eyes and streaming hair, Jutta the Sorceress was there,

ces: thus Harold is clad in a kind of armor not worn 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 Review.

And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain,
All crush'd and foul with bloody stain.-
More had I seen, but that uprose

A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows;
And with such sound as when at need
A champion spurs his horse to speed,
Three arm'd knights rush on, who lead
Caparison'd a sable steed.

Sable their harness, and there came
Through their closed vizors sparks of flame.
The first proclaim'd, in sounds of fear,
'Harold the Dauntless, welcome here!'
The next cried, 'Jubilee! we've won
Count Witikind the Waster's son !'
And the third rider sternly spoke,
'Mount, in the name of Zernebock !—
From us, O Harold, were thy powers,—
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are ours;
Nor think, a vassal thou of hell,

With hell can strive.' The fiend spoke true!
My inmost soul the summons knew,

As captives know the knell

That says the headsman's sword is bare,
And, with an accent of despair,

Commands them quit their cell.

I felt resistance was in vain,
My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en,
My hand was on the fatal mane,

When to my rescue sped
That Palmer's visionary form,
And-like the passing of a storm-
The demons yell'd and fled!

XI.

"His sable cowl, flung back, reveal'd The features it before conceal'd;

And, Gunnar, I could find

In him whose counsels strove to stay
So oft my course on wilful way,
My father Witikind!

Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for mine,
A wanderer upon earth to pine
Until his son shall turn to grace,
And smooth for him a resting-place.-
Gunnar, he must not hunt in vain
This world of wretchedness and pain:
I'll tame my wilful heart to live
In peace-to pity and forgive-
And thou, for so the Vision said,
Must in thy Lord's repentance aid.
Thy mother was a prophetess,
He said, who by her skill could guess
How close the fatal textures join
Which knit thy thread of life with mine;
Then, dark, he hinted of disguise
She framed to cheat too curious eyes,
That not a moment might divide
Thy fated footsteps from my side.

Methought while thus my sire did teach,
I caught the meaning of his speech,
Yet seems its purport doubtful now."
His hand then sought his thoughtful brow
Then first he mark'd, that in the tower
His glove was left at waking hour.

XII.

Trembling at first, and deadly pale,
Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale;
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 bowe
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, that 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 thn.
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 phrensy of my breast,
Waked by thy words; and of my mail,
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 spray
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!

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!"

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 ana wed."

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid? And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow

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

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

"Harold the Dauntless,' like The Bridal of Triermain,' i 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 actorsof 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 'nforming 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 parlor-boarders "ladies' schools in England; but they want that appearance A 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 appeared 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 fend and fray, through which the poet of early times conducts his reader. His warhorse 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, Haro'd 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 ease 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 gentus, 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

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.'

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 beet surprised that some of our literary critics, even those to whose judgment we were most disposed to bow, should lay so much stress on the probability and fitness of every incident which the fancy of the poet may lead him to embellish in the course of a narrative poem, a great proportion of which must neces sarily be descriptive. The author of Harold the Dauntless seems to have judged differently from these crities; and in the lightsome rapid strain of poetry which he has chosen, we feel no disposition to quarrel with him on account of the easy and careless manner in which he has arranged his story. In many instances he undoubtedly shows the hand of a master, and has truly studied and seized the essential character of the antique-his attitudes and draperies are unconfined, and varied with demi-tints, possessing much of the lustre, freshness, and spirit of Rembrandt. The airs of his heads have grace, and his distances something of the lightness and keeping of Salvator Rosa. The want of harmony and anion in the car nations of his females is a slight objection, and there is likewise a meagre sheetiness in his contrasts of chiaroscure; but these are all redeemed by the felicity, execution, and master traits distinguishable in his grouping, as in a Murillo or Carra veggio.

But the work has another quality, and though its leading one, we do not know whether to censure or approve it. It is an avowed imitation, and therefore loses part of its value, it viewed as an original production. On the other hand, regarded solely as an imitation, it is one of the closest and most successful, without being either a caricature or a parody, that perhaps ever appeared in any language. Not only is the general manner of Scott ably maintained throughout, but the very structure of the language, the associations, and the train of thinking, appear to be precisely the same. It was once alleged by some writers, that it was impossible to imitate Mr. Scott's style; but it is now fully proved to the world that there is no style more accessible to imitation; for it will be remarked (laying parodies aside, which any one may execute), that Mr. Davidson and Miss Halford, as well as Lord Byron and Wordsworth, each in one instance, have all, without we believe intending it, imitated him with considerable closeness. The author of the Poetic Mirror has given us one specimen of his most pol ished and tender style, and another, still more close, of his rapid and careless manner; but all of them fall greatly short of the Bridal of Triermain, and the poem now before us. We are sure the author will laugh heartily in his sleeve at our silliness and want of perception, when we confess to him that we never could open either of these works, and peruse his pages for two minutes with attention, and at the same time divest our minds of the idea that we were engaged in an early or experimental work of that great master. That they are gene rally inferior to the works of Mr. Scott in vigor and interest, admits no of dispute; still they have many of his wild and softer beauties; and if they fail to be read and admired, we shall not on that account think the better of the taste of the age."-Blackwood's Magazine, April, 1817.

END OF HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

THE Introduction originally prefixed to "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," was rather of historical than a literary nature; and the remarks which follow have been added, to afford the general reader some information upon the character of Ballad Poetry.

It would be throwing away words to prove, what all must admit, the general taste and propensity of nations in their early state, to cultivate some species of rude poetry. When the organs and faculties of a primitive race have developed themselves, each for its proper and necessary use, there is a natural tendency to employ them in a more refined and regulated manner for purposes of amusement. The savage, after proving the activity of his limbs in the chase or the battle, trains them to more measured movements, to dance at the festivals of his tribe, or to perform obeisance before the altars of his deity. From the same impulse, he is disposed to refine the ordinary speech which forms the vehicle of social communication betwixt him and his brethren, until, by a more ornate diction, modulated by certain rules of rhythm, cadence, assonance of termination, or recurrence of sound or letter, he obtains a dialect more solemn in expression, to record the laws or exploits of his tribe, or more sweet in sound, in which to plead his own cause to his mistress.

This primeval poetry must have one general character in all nations, both as to its merits and its imperfections. The earlier poets have the advantage, and it is not a small one, of having the first choice out of the stock of materials which are proper to thз art; and thus they compel later authors, if they would avoid slavishly imitating the fathers of verse, into various devices, often more

1 These remarks were first appended to the edition of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," 1830.-ED.

* Sir Walter Scott, as this paragraph intimates, never doubt

ingenious than elegant, that they may establish, it not an absolute claim to originality, at least a visible distinction betwixt themselves and their predecessors. Thus it happens, that early poets almost uniformly display a bold, rude, criginal cast of genius and expression. They have walked at free-will, and with unconstrained steps, along the wilds of Parnassus, while their followers move with constrained gestures and forced attitudes, in order to avoid placing their feet where their predecessors have stepped before them. The first bard who compared his hero to a lion, struck a bold and congenial note, though the simile, in a nation of hunters, be a very obvious one; but every subsequent poet who shall use it, must either struggle hard to give his lion, as heralds say, with a difference, or lie under the imputatior of being a servile imitator.

It is not probable that, by any researches of modern times, we shall ever reach back to an earlier model of poetry than Homer; but as there lived heroes before Agamemnon, so, unquestionably, poets existed before the immortal Bard who gave the King of kings his fame; and he whom all civilized nations now acknowledge as the Father of Poetry, must have himself looked back to an ancestry of poetical predecessors, and is only held original because we know not from whom he copied. Indeed, though much must be ascribed to the riches of his own individual genius, the poetry of Homer argues a degree of perfection in an art which practice had already rendered regular, and concerning which, his frequent mention of the bards, or chanters of poetry, indicates plainly that it was studied by many, and known and admired by all."

It is indeed easily discovered, that the qualities

ed that the Iliad and Odyssey were substantially the works of one and the same individual. He said of the Wolfian hypothesis, that it was the most irreligious one he had heard of, and could never be believed in by any poet.-ED.