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In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is not a knight | Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent,
Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin in fight; Are still to mystic learning lent;-
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply,

Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope, 'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to deny." Thou well mayst give counsel to Prelate or Pape."


On ven’son and malmsie that morning had fed Answer'd the Prior-“ 'Tis wisdom's use
The Cellarer Vinsauf-'twas thus that he said : Still to delay what we dare not refuse;
“ Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply;

Ere granting the boon he comes hither to ask,
Let the feast be spread fair and the wine be pour'd high: Shape for the giant gigantic task;
If he's mortal he drinks,- if he drinks, he is ours- Let us see how a step so sounding can tread
His bracelets of iron,-his bed in our towers.” In paths of darkness, danger, and dread;
This man had a laughing eye,

He may not, he will not, impugn our decree,
Trust not, friends, when such you spy;

That calls but for proof of his chivalry ; A beaker's depth he well could drain,

And were Guy to return, or Sir Bevis the Strong, Revel, sport, and jest amain

Our wilds have adventure might cumber them longThe haunch of the deer and the grape's bright dye The Castle of Seven Shields”-“ Kind Anselm, no Never bard loved them better than I;

more! But sooner than Vinsauf fill'd me my wine,

The step of the Pagan approaches the door.” Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine,

The churchmen were bush'd.-In his mantle of skin, Thongh the buck were of Bearpark, of Bourdeaux the With his mace on his shoulder, Count Harold strode in. vine,

There was foam on his lips, there was fire in his eye, With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine

For, chafed by attendance, his fury was nigh. On an oaken cake and a draught of the Tyne. “ Ho! Bishop,” he said, “ dost thou grant me my


Or must I assert it by falchion and flame?"-
Walwayn the leech spoke next-he knew
Each plant that loves the sun and dew,

But special those whose juice can gain

“ On thy suit, gallant Harold” the Bishop replied, Dominion o'er the blood and brain;

In accents which trembled, “ we may not decide, The peasant who saw him by pale moonbeam Until proof of your strength and your valour we sawGathering such herbs by bank and stream,

'Tis not that we doubt them, but such is the law.”Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread

“ And would you, Sir Prelate, have Harold make sport Were those of wanderer from the dead.

For the cowls and the shavelings that herd in thy “ Vinsauf, thy wine,” he said, “ hath power,

court ? Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower;

Say what shall he do?—From the shrine shall he tear Yet three drops from this flask of mine,

The lead bier of thy patron, and heave it in air, More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine, And through the long chancel make Cuthbert take Shall give him prison under ground

wing, More dark, more narrow, more profound.

With the speed of a bullet dismiss'd from the sling?"Short rede, good rede, let Harold have

“Nay, spare such probation," the Cellarer said, A dog's death and a heathen’s grave."

“ From the mouth of our minstrels thy task shall be I have lain on a sick man's bed,

read. Watching for hours for the leech's tread,

While the wine sparkles high in the goblet of gold, As if I deem'd that his presence alone

And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be told; Were of power to bid my pain begone;

And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hearing it, tell I have listed his words of comfort given,

That the Bishop, his cowls, and his shavelings, meant As if to oracles from heaven;

well.” I have counted his steps from my chamber door, And bless'd them when they were heard no more;

XIII. But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch should nigh, Loud revell’d the guests, and the goblets loud rang, My choice were, by leech-craft unaided, to die. But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, sans ;

And Harold, the hurry and pride of whose soul,

E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's control, “ Such service done in fervent zeal

Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye, The Church may pardon and conceal,"

And often untasted the goblet pass'd by; The doubtful Prelate said, “ but ne'er

Than wine, or than wassail, to him was more dear The counsel ere the act should hear.

The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to hear; Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now,

And the Bishop that day might of Vinsauf complain The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow;

That his art had but wasted his wine-casks in vain.

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With their eyes all on fire, and their daggers all red. The Castle of the Seven Shields. Seven damsels surround the Northumbrian's bed.

The Druid Urien had daughters seven,

“ Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have done, Their skill could call the moon from heaven; Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath wou, So fair their forms and so high their fame,

Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do, That seven proud kings for their suitors came. Or the bed of the seventh shall be husbandless too."

King Mador and Rhys came from Powis and Wales, Well chanced it that Adolf the night when he wed Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned were their Had contess'd and had sain’d him ere boune to his bed; nails;

He sprung from the couch and his broadsword he From Strath-Clwyde was Ewain, and Ewain was lame, drew, And the red-bearded Donald from Galloway came. And there the seven daughters of Urien he slew.

Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd from youth;
Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth;
But Adolf of Bambrough, Northumberland's heir,
Was gay and was gallant, was young and was fair.

The gate of the castle he bolted and seal’d,
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown and a shield ;
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended his way,
And died in his cloister an anchorite grey.

There was strife'mongst the sisters, for each one would Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stowa, have

The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven and toad. For husband King Adolf, the gallant and brave; Whoever shall guesten these chambers within, And envy bred hate, and hate urged them to blows, From curfew till matins, that treasure shall win. When the firm earth was cleft, and the Arch-fiend arose!

But manhood grows faint as the world waxes old!

There lives not in Britain a champion so bold, He swore to the maidens their wish to fulfil--- So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of brain, They swore to the foe they would work by his will. As to dare the adventure that treasure to gain. A spindle and distaff to each hath he giren, “ Now hearken my spell,” said the Outcast of heaven. The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with the rye,

Before the rude Scots shall Northumberland fly, “ Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight hour,

And the flint clifts of Bambro' shall melt in the sun. And for every spindle shall rise a tower,

Before that adventure be peril'd and won.' Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong shall have power,

XV. And there shall ye dwell with your paramour.” And is this my probation ?” wild Harold he said,

“ Within a lone castle to press a lone bed ! Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on the wold, Good even, my Lord Bishop,-Saint Cuthbert to bor. And the rhymes which they chanted must never be row,

The Castle of Seven Shields receives me to-morrow." And as the black wool from the distaff they sped, With blood from their bosom they moisten’d the thread.



Harold the Dauntless.

As light danced the spindles beneath the cold gleam,
The castle arose like the birth of a dream
The seven towers ascended like mist from the ground,
Seven portals defend them, seven ditches surround.


Within that dread castle seven monarchs were wed,
But six of the seven ere the morning lay dead;

DENMARK's sage courtier to her princely youth,
Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale,

I “The word 'peril,' is continually used as a verb by both writers:

• Nor peril aught for me agen.'

Lady of the Lake. Canto ii. stanza 26.

"I peril'd thus the helpless child.'

Lord of the Isles. Canto v. stanza 10.

I were undeserving his grace, aid I not peril it for his good.'- Ivanhoe. &c. &c."- ADOLPHUS' Letters on the Author of Wavericu.

2 “ Hamlet. Do you see yonder cloud, that's almost in shape of a camel ?

Polonius. By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed!
Ham. Methinks, it is like a weasel.
Pol. It is hacked like a weasel.
Ham, Or, like a whale?
Pol. Very like a whale"


• Were the blood of all my ancestors in my veins, I would have periled it in this quarrel.'-Waverley.

Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial truth ;

Though destined by thy evil star For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil.

With one like me to rove, The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning pale,

Whose business and whose joys are found Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver haze,

Upon the bloody battle-ground. Are but the ground-work of the rich detail

Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, Which Fantasy with pencil wild portrays,

Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, Blending what seems and is, in the wrapt muser's And thou and I will never part gaze.

Harold would wrap the world in flame

Ere injury on Gunnar came!”
Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and stone
Less to the Sorceress's empire given;

For not with unsubstantial hues alone,

The grateful Page made no reply, Caught from the varying surge, or vacant heaven,

But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye, From bursting sunbeam, or from flashing levin, And clasp'd his hands, as one who said, She limps her pictures: on the earth, as air,

“ My toils—my wanderings are o'erpaid !”. Arise her castles, and her car is driven;

Then in a gayer, lighter strain, And never gazed the eye on scene so fair,

Compellid himself to speech again; But of its boasted charms gave Fancy half the And, as they flow'd along, share.

í His words took cadence soft and slow,

And liquid, like dissolving snow,

They melted into song.
Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to prove,
Hugh Meneville, the adventure of thy lay;

Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and love,

“ What though through fields of carnage wide Ever companion of his master's way.

I may not follow Harold's stride, Midward their path, a rock of granite grey

Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride From the adjoining cliff had made descent,

Lord Harold's feats can see? A barren mass--yet with her drooping spray

And dearer than the couch of pride, Had a young birch-tree crown'd its battlement, He loves the bed of grey wolf's hide, Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, flaw, and When slumbering by Lord Harold's side, rent.

In forest, field, or lea.”

This rock and tree could Gunnar's thought en

gage Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to his eye, And at his master ask'd the timid Page, “ What is the emblem that a bard shou'd spy In that rude rock and its green canopy ?” And Harold said, “ Like to the helmet brave Of warrior slain in fight it seems to lie,

And these same drooping boughs do o'er it wave Not all unlike the plume his lady’s favour gave.”

“ Ah, no!” replied the Page; “ the ill-starr'd

Of some poor maid is in the emblem shown,
Whose fates are with some hero's interwove,
And rooted on a heart to love unknown:
And as the gentle dews of heaven alone
Nourish those drooping boughs, and as the scathe
Of the red lightning rends both tree and stone,

So fares it with her unrequited faith,-
fler sole relief is tears—her only refuge death.”—

“ Break off !” said Harold, in a tone
Where hurry and surprise were shown,

With some slight touch of fear,-
“ Break off, we are not here alone;
A Palmer form comes slowly on !
By cowl, and staff, and mantle known,

My monitor is near.
Now mark him, Gunnar, heedfully;
He pauses by the blighted tree-
Dost see him, youth ?--Thou couldst not see
When in the vale of Galilee

I first beheld his form,
Nor when we met that other while
In Cephalonia’s rocky isle,

Before the fearful storm,-
Dost see him now?”—The Page, distraught
With terror, answer'd," I see nought,

And there is nought to see,
Save that the oak’s scathed boughs fling down
Upon the path a shadow brown,
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown,

Waves with the waving tree.”

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Count Harold gazed upon the oak
As if his eyestrings would have broke,

And then resolvedly said,

* Be what it will yon phantom grey

Relentless in his avarice and ire, Nor heaven, nor hell, shall ever say

Churches and towns he gave to sword and fire; That for their shadows from his way

Shed blood like water, wasted every land,
Count Harold turn’d dismay'd :

Like the destroying angel's burning brand;
I'll speak him, though his accents fill

Fulfili'd whate'er of ill might be invented, My heart with that unwonted thrill

Yes — all these things he did -- he did, but he Which vulgar minds call fear.'

REPENTED! I will subdue it!”-Forth he strode,

Perchance it is part of his punishment still, Paused where the blighted oak-tree show'd That his offspring pursues his example of ill. Its sable shadow on the road,

But thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall next shake And, folding on his bosom broad

thee, His arms, said, “ Speak-I hear."

Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and awake

thee; VIII.

If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted soever, The Deep Voice said, “ O wild of will,

The gate of repentance sball ope for thee NEVER !”Furious thy purpose to fulfilHeart-sear'd and unrepentant still,

XI. How long, O Harold, shall thy tread

“ He is gone," said Lord Harold, and gazed as he Disturb the slumbers of the dead?

spoke; Each step in thy wild way thou makest,

“ There is nought on the path but the shade of the The ashes of the dead thou wakest;

oak. And shout in triumph o'er thy path

He is gone, whose strange presence my feeling opThe fiends of bloodshed and of wrath.

press'd. In this thine hour, yet turn and hear!

Like the night-hag that sits on the slumberer's breast. For life is brief and judgment near.”

My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's tread,

And cold dews drop from my brow and my head.IX.

Ho! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner gave; Then ceased The Voice.—The Dane replied He said that three drops would recall from the In tones where awe and inborn pride

grave. For mastery strove,—“ In vain ye chide

For the first time Count Harold owns leech-craft has The wolf for ravaging the flock,

power, Or with its hardness taunt the rock,

Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a flower!I am as they-my Danish strain

The page gave the flasket, which Walwayn had fillid Sends streams of fire through every vein.

With the juice of wild roots that his art bad Amid thy realms of goule and ghost,

distill'dSay, is the fame of Eric lost,

So baneful their influence on all that had breath, Or Witikind's the Waster, known

One drop had been frenzy, and two had been death. Where fame or spoil was to be won;

Harold took it, but drank not; for jubilee shrill, Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore

And music and clamour were heard on the hill, They left not black with flame?

And down the steep pathway, o'er stock and o'er He was my sire,-and, sprung of him,

stone, That rover merciless and grim,

The train of a bridal came blithesomely on;
Can I be soft and tame?

There was song, there was pipe, there was timbrel,
Part hence, and with my crimes no more upbraid me, and still
I am that Waster's son, and am but what he made me." The burden was, “ Joy to the fair Metelill!”

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The fragment which their giant foe
Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw.

Redoubling echoes roll'd about, While echoing cave and cliff sent out

The answering symphony Of all those mimio notes which dwell In hollow rock and sounding dell.

XIII. Joy shook his torch above the band, By many a various passion fann'd;As elemental sparks can feed On essence pure and coarsest weed, Gentle, or stormy, or refined, Joy takes the colours of the mind. Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd, He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast; More feebly strove with maiden fear, Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows Like dewdrop on the budding rose; While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared The glee that selfish avarice shared, And pleased revenge and malice high Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. On dangerous adventure sped, The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, For thus that morn her Demon said:“ If, ere the set of sun, be tied The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his bride, The Dane shall have no power of ill O'er William and o'er Metelill." And the pleased witch made answer, “ Then Must Harold have pass'd from the paths of men ! Evil repose may his spirit have, May hemlock and mandrake find root in his

grave, May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams of dis

may, And his waking be worse at the answering day."

XV. Backward they bore ;-yet are there two

For battle who prepare:
No pause of dread Lord William knew

Ere his good blade was bare;
And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew,
But ere the silken cord he drew,
As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder, flew

That ruin through the air!
Full on the outlaw's front it came,
And all that late had human name,
And human face, and human frame,
That lived, and moved, and had free will
To choose the path of good or ill,

Is to its reckoning gone;
And nought of Wulfstane rests behind,

Save that beneath that stone,
Half-buried in the dinted clay,
A red and shapeless mass there lay

Of mingled flesh and bone!

As from the bosom of the sky

The eagle darts amain,
Three bounds from yonder summit high

Placed Harold on the plain.
As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly,

So fled the bridal train;
As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might
The noble falcon dares the fight,

But dares the fight in vain,
So fought the bridegroom; from his hand
The Dane's rude mace has struck his brand,
Its glittering fragments strew the sand,

Its lord lies on the plain. Now, Heaven! take noble William's part, And melt that yet unmelted heart, Or, ere his bridal hour depart,

The hapless bridegroom 's slain !

XIV. Such was their various mood of glee Blent in one shout of ecstasy. But still when Joy is brimming highest, Of Sorrow and Misfortune nighest, Of terror with her ague cheek, And lurking Danger, sages speak : These haunt each path, but chief they lay Their snares beside the primrose way.Thus found that bridal band their path Beset by Harold in his wrath. Trembling beneath his maddening mood, High on a rock the giant stood; His shout was like the doom of death Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd beneath, His destined victims might not spy The reddening terrors of his eye,The frown of rage that writhed his face,The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase ;But all could see-and, seeing, all Bere back to shun the threaten'd fall

Count Harold's frenzied rage is high,
There is a death-fire in his eye,
Deep furrows on his brow are trench’d,
His teeth are set, his hand is clenchid,
The foam upon his lip is white,
His deadly arm is up to smite !
But, as the mače aloft he swung,
To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung,
Around his master's knees he clung,

And cried, “ In mercy spare !
O, think upon the words of fear
Spoke by that visionary Seer,
The crisis he foretold is here,

Grant mercy,–or despair !”
This word suspended Harold's mood,
Yet still with arm upraised he stood,

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