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But slept again, as slowly died
Vain is the wish-since other cares demand Its thunders on the hill's brown side.
Each vacant hour, and in another clime;
But still that northern harp invites my hand, XIX.
Which tells the wonder of thine earlier time; “ And is this all,” said Jutta stern,
And fain its numbers would I now command « That thou can'st teach and I can learn ?
To paint the beauties of that dawning fair, Hence! to the land of fog and waste,
When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand There fittest is thine influence placed,
Upon the western heights of Beaurepaire, Thou puwerless, sluggish Deity!
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by winding Wear. But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee Again before so poor a god.”
II. She struck the altar with her rod;
Fair on the half-seen streams the sunbeams danced Slight was the touch, as when at need
Betraying it beneath the woodland bank, A damsel stirs her tardy steed;
And fair between the Gothic turrets glanced But to the blow the stone gave place,
Broad lights, and shadows fell on front and flank, And, starting from its balanced base,
Where tower and buttress rose in martial rank, Roll’d thundering down the moonlight dell,-- And girdled in the massive donjon Keep, Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell;
And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush and bank Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd,
The matin bell with summons long and deep, Their shores the sounding surges lash'd,
And echo answer'd still with long-resounding sweep And there was ripple, rage, and foam; But on that lake, so dark and lone,
Ill. Placid and pale the moonbeam shone
The morning mists rose from the ground, As Jutta hied her home.
Each merry bird awakend round,
As if in revelry;
The gale breathed soft and free,
And seem'd to linger on its way
So light and gamesomely.
The scenes which morning beams reveal,
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel
And hung it on a tree beside,
Laid mace and falchion by,
Some reverend room, some prebendary's stall, And from his dark habitual frown
Relax'd his rugged brow
Whoever hath the doubtful task Well yet I love thy mix'd and massive piles,
From that stern Dane a boon to ask,
Were wise to ask it now.
And mark'd his master's softening look,
And in his eye's dark mirror spied And from oblivion rend the spoils they yield, The gloom of stormy thoughts subside, fiestoring priestly chant and clang of knightly shield. And cautious watch'd the fittest tide
1 In this stanza occurs one of many touches by which, in supposed to have nourished such an intention-one which no the introductory passages of Harold the Dauntless as of Trier- one could ever have dreamt of ascribing at any period of his main, Sir Walter Scott betrays his half-purpose of identifying days to Sir Walter Scott himself. the author with his friend William Erskine. That gentleman, the son of an Episcopalian clergy man, a stanch church- Robert Surtees of Mainsforth, Esq., P.S.A., author of man, and a man of the gentlest habits, if he did not in early “The History and Antiquities of the County Palatine of life design to follow the paternal profession, mr.ight easily be Durham." 3 rols. folio, 1816-20-23.
To speak a warning word.
In anxious awe he bears away So when the torrent's billows shrink,
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay, The timid pilgrim on the brink
And murmurs from the bounding stern,
Rest thec, Dweller of the Cairn!'
“ What cares disturb the mighty dead! His step advances or withdraws:
Each bonour'd rite was duly paid; Fearful to move the slumbering ire
No daring hand thy helm unlaced, Of his stern lord, thus stood the squire,
Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee placedyTill Harold raised his eye,
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned, That glanced as when athwart the shroud
Without, with hostile blood was stain'd; Of the dispersing tempest-cloud
Within, 'twas lined with moss and fern, The bursting sunbeams fly.
Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn !
“ He may not rest: from realms afar
“ Where eddying currents foam and boil
Profane not, youth-it is not thine
2. To judge the spirit of our line
Ill fares the fainting Palmer, placed The bold Berserkar's rage divine,
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste, Through whose inspiring, deeds are wrought Ill when the scorching sun is high, Past human strength and human thought.
And the expected font is dry,When full upon his gloomy soul
Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath, The champion feels the influence roll,
The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death. He swims the lake, he leaps the wallHeeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall
3. Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes
“ Ill fares the Knight with buckler eleft, Singly against a host of foes;
And ill when of his helm bereft,Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds,
Ill when his steed to earth is flung, Their mail like maiden's silken weeds;
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung; One 'gainst a hundred will he strive,
But worse, if instant ruin token, Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
When he lists rede by woman spoken.”— Then rush the eagles to his cry Of slaughter and of victory,
X. And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl,
“ How now, fond boy ?-Canst thou think Deep drinks his sword,-deep drinks his soul;
ill," And all that meet him in his ire
Said Harold, “ of fair Metelill ?”— He gives to ruin, rout, and fire;
“She may be fair," the Page replied, Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
As through the strings he ranged,-And couches till he's man agen.
“ She may be fair; but yet,” he cried, Thou know'st the signs of look and limb,
And then the strain he changed,—When 'gins that rage to overbrimThou know'st when I am moved, and why;
sung. And when thou see'st me roll mine eye,
1. Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
“She may be fair,” he sang," but yet Regard thy safety and be mute;
Far fairer have I seen But else speak boldly out whate'er
Than she, for all her locks of jet, Is fitting that a knight should hear.
And eyes so dark and sheen. I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Were I a Danish knight in arms, Upon my dark and sullen hour;
As one day I may be, So Christian monks are wont to say
My heart should own no foreign charms, – Demons of old were charm'd away;
A Danish maid for me.
“I love my fathers' northern land, IX.
Where the dark pine-trees grow, As down some strait in doubt and dread
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand The watchful pilot drops the lead,
Looks o'er each grassy oe.' And, cautious in the midst to steer,
I love to mark the lingering sun, The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
From Denmark loth to go, So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,
And leaving on the billows bright, The Page his master's brow observed,
To cheer the short-lived summer night,
A path of ruddy glow.
3. The soothing charm of harmony,
“ But most the northern maid I love, While hinted half, and half exprest,
With breast like Denmark's snow, This warning song convey'd the rest.
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 66 Ill fares the bark with tackle riven,
With the cheek's rosy hue, And ill when on the breakers driven,
And Faith might for her mirror hold
That eye of matchless blue.
Up and away, that deepening bell * Tis hers the manly sports to love
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 curtaio fall, Clasp him victorious from the strife,
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's liall. Or on his corpse yield up her life,
A Danish maid for me!”
Harald the Dauntless.
Intruded oft within such sacred fold,
Well pleased am 1, howe'er, that when the route
Though papal miracles had graced the stone,
2 “ All is hush'd, and still as death-'tis dreadful!
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
And monumental caves of death look cold,
CONGREVE'S Mourning Bride, Act ii. Scene L.
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.
To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere, But now to earlier and to ruder times,
For the service Saint Cuthber:'s bless'd banner to bear, As subject meet, I tune my rugged rhymes, When the bands of the North come to foray the Wear; Telling how fairly the chapter was met,
Then disturb not our conclave with wrangling or And rood and books in seemly order set;
blame, Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the hand But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye came." Of studious priest but rarely scann'd, Now on fair carved desk display'd,
V. 'Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid.
Loud laugh’d the stern Pagan,—“ They're free from O’erhead with many a scutcheon graced,
the care And quaint devices interlaced,
Of fief and of service, both Conyers and Vere,A labyrinth of crossing rows,
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need, The roof in lessening arches shows;
A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead.Beneath its shade placed proud and high,
Ho, Gunnar!—the tokens;"-and, sever'd anew, With footstool and with canopy,
A head and a hand on the altar he threw. Sate Aldingar,-and prelate ne'er
Then shudder'd with terror both Canon and Monk, More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's chair; They knew the glazed eye and the countenance Canons and deacons were placed below,
shrunk, In due degree and lengthen'd row.
And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled hair, Unmoved and silent each sat there,
And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic Vere. Like image in his oaken chair;
There was not a churchman or priest that was there, Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd,
But grew pale at the sight, and betook him to prayer. Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard; And of their eyes severe alone
VI. The twinkle show'd they were not stone.
Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of fear:
“ Was this the hand should your banner bear III.
Was that the head should wear the casque The Prelate was to speech address'd,
In battle at the Church's task? Each head sunk reverent on each breast;
Was it to such you gave the place But ere his voice was heard-without
Of Harold with the heavy mace? Arose a wild tumultuous shout,
Find me between the Wear and Tyne Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear,
A knight will wield this club of mine,Such as in crowded streets we hear
Give him my fiefs, and I will say Hailing the flames, that, bursting out,
There's wit beneath the cowl of grey." Attract yet scare the rabble rout.
He raised it, rough with many a stain, Ere it had ceased, a giant hand
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting brain; Shook oaken door and iron band,
He wheel'd it that it shrilly sung, Till oak and iron both gave way,
And the aisles echo'd as it swung, Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray,
Then dash'd it down with sheer descent, And, ere upon angel or saint they can call,
And split King Osric's monument.Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of the hall. “ How like ye this music? How trow ye the hand
That can wield such a mace may be reft of its land? IV.
No answer!-I spare ye a space to agree, “ Now save ye, my masters, both rocket and rood, And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if he be. Fromn Bishop with mitre to Deacon with hood! Ten strides through your chancel, ten strokes on your For here stands Count Harold, old Witikind's son,
bell, Come to sue for the lands which his ancestors won." And again I am with you-grave fathers, farewell,” The Prelate look'd round him with sore troubled eye, Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny;
VII. Wtile each Canon and Deacon who heard the Dane He turn’d from their presence, he clash'd the vai speak,
door, To be safely at home would have fasted a week:- And the clang of his stride died away on the floor; Then Aldingar roused him, and answer'd again, And his head from his bosom the Prelate uprears “ Thou suest for a boon which thou canst not obtain; With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost disappears The Church hath no fiefs for an unchristen's Dane. “ Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give me your Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath given,
rede, That the priests of a chantry might hymn him to For never of counsel had Bishop more need! heaver;
Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and in bone, And the fiefs which whilome he possess’d as his due, The language, the look, and the laugh were his Have lapsed to the Church, and been granted anew