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;
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply,
'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to deny."
On ven'son and malmsie that morning had fed
The Cellarer Vinsauf-'twas thus that he said:
"Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply;
Let the feast be spread fair, and the wine be pour'd high:
If he's mortal he drinks,-if he drinks, he is ours—
His bracelets of iron,-his bed in our towers."
This man had a laughing eye,
Trust not, friends, when such you spy;
A beaker's depth he well could drain,
Revel, sport, and jest amain
The haunch of the deer and the grape's bright dye
Never bard loved them better than I;
But sooner than Vinsauf fill'd me my wine,
Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine,
Are still to mystic learning lent ;Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope,
Thou well mayst give counsel to Prelate or Pɔpe."
Answer'd the Prior-" "Tis wisdom's use
Still to delay what we dare not refuse;
Ere granting the boon he comes hither to ask,
Shape for the giant gigantic task;
Let us see how a step so sounding can tread
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread;
He may not, he will not, impugn our decree,
That calls but for proof of his chivalry;
And were Guy to return, or Sir Bevis the Strong,
Our wilds have adventure might cumber them long-
The Castle of Seven Shields". "Kind Anselm, no
The step of the Pagan approaches the door."
The churchmen were bush'd.-In his mantle of skin,
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of Bourdeaux the With his mace on his shoulder, Count Harold strode in.
With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine
On an oaken cake and a draught of the Tyne.
Walwayn the leech spoke next-he knew
Each plant that loves the sun and dew,
But special those whose juice can gain
Dominion o'er the blood and brain;
The peasant who saw him by pale moonbeam
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream,
Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread
Were those of wanderer from the dead.-
"Vinsauf, thy wine," he said, " hath power,
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower;
Yet three drops from this flask of mine,
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine,
Shall give him prison under ground
More dark, more narrow, more profound.
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have-
A dog's death and a heathen's grave."
I have lain on a sick man's bed,
Watching for hours for the leech's tread,
As if I deem'd that his presence alone
Were of power to bid my pain begone;
I have listed his words of comfort given,
As if to oracles from heaven;
I have counted his steps from my chamber door,
And bless'd them when they were heard no more ;-
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch should nigh,
My choice were, by leech-craft unaided, to die.
"Such service done in fervent zeal
The Church may pardon and conceal,"
The doubtful Prelate said, " but ne'er
The counsel ere the act should hear.-
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now,
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow;
There was foam on his lips, there was fire in his eye, For, chafed by attendance, his fury was nigh. "Ho! Bishop," he said, "dost thou grant me my claim?
Or must I assert it by falchion and flame?"—
"On thy suit, gallant Harold " the Bishop replied,
In accents which trembled, "we may not decide,
Until proof of your strength and your valour we saw-
'Tis not that we doubt them, but such is the law."-
"And would you, Sir Prelate, have Harold make sport
For the cowls and the shavelings that herd in thy
court?
Say what shall he do?-From the shrine shall he tear
The lead bier of thy patron, and heave it in air,
And through the long chancel make Cuthbert take
wing,
With the speed of a bullet dismiss'd from the sling?"-
"Nay, spare such probation," the Cellarer said,
"From the mouth of our minstrels thy task shall be
read.
While the wine sparkles high in the goblet of gold,
And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be told;
And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hearing it, tell
That the Bishop, his cowls, and his shavelings, meant
well."
Loud revell'd the guests, and the goblets loud rang,
But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, sang;
And Harold, the hurry and pride of whose soul,
E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's control,
Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye,
And often untasted the goblet pass'd by;
Than wine, or than wassail, to him was more dear
The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to hear;
And the Bishop that day might of Vinsauf complain
That his art had but wasted his wine-casks in vain.
There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for each one would Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stow'd, have
For husband King Adolf, the gallant and brave;
And envy bred hate, and hate urged them to blows,
When the firm earth was cleft, and the Arch-fiend
arose!
He swore to the maidens their wish to fulfil-
They swore to the foe they would work by his will.
A spindle and distaff to each hath he given,
"Now hearken my spell," said the Outcast of heaven.
"Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight hour,
And for every spindle shall rise a tower,
Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong shall have
power,
And there shall ye dwell with your paramour."
Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on the wold,
And the rhymes which they chanted must never be
told;
And as the black wool from the distaff they sped,
With blood from their bosom they moisten'd the thread.
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;
1 "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.
Were the blood of all my ancestors in my veins, I would have periled it in this quarrel.'-Waverley.
The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven and toad.
Whoever shall guesten these chambers within,
From curfew till matins, that treasure shall win.
But manhood grows faint as the world waxes old!
There lives not in Britain a champion so bold,
So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of brain,
As to dare the adventure that treasure to gain.
Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial truth; 'For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil. The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning pale, Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver haze, Are but the ground-work of the rich detail Which Fantasy with pencil wild portrays, Blending what seems and is, in the wrapt muser's gaze.
Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and stone
Less to the Sorceress's empire given;
For not with unsubstantial hues alone,
Caught from the varying surge, or vacant heaven,
From bursting sunbeam, or from flashing levin,
She limns her pictures: on the earth, as air,
Arise her castles, and her car is driven;
And never gazed the eye on scene so fair,
But of its boasted charms gave Fancy half the
Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to prove, Hugh Meneville, the adventure of thy lay; Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and love, Ever companion of his master's way. Midward their path, a rock of granite grey From the adjoining cliff had made descent,A barren mass-yet with her drooping spray Had a young birch-tree crown'd its battlement, Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, flaw, and
This rock and tree could Gunnar's thought engage
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 love
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,-
Her sole relief is tears-her only refuge death."
"Thou art a fond fantastic boy," Harold replied, "to females coy,
Yet prating still of love; Even so amid the clash of war I know thou lovest to keep afar,
Though destined by thy evil star
With one like me to rove, Whose business and whose joys are found Upon the bloody battle-ground. Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, And thou and I will never part;Harold would wrap the world in flame Ere injury on Gunnar came!"
The grateful Page made no reply,
But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye,
And clasp'd his hands, as one who said,
"My toils-my wanderings are o'erpaid!"
Then in a gayer, lighter strain,
Compell'd himself to speech again;
And, as they flow'd along,
His words took cadence soft and slow,
And liquid, like dissolving snow,
They melted into song.
"What though through fields of carnage wide
I may not follow Harold's stride,
Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride
Lord Harold's feats can see?
And dearer than the couch of pride,
He loves the bed of grey wolf's hide,
When slumbering by Lord Harold's side
In forest, field, or lea.”—
"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
1 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."
Count Harold gazed upon the oak
As if his eyestrings would have broke,
And then resolvedly said.
"Be what it will yon phantom greyNor heaven, nor hell, shall ever say That for their shadows from his way
Count Harold turn'd dismay'd: I'll speak him, though his accents fill My heart with that unwonted thrill
Which vulgar minds call fear.1
I will subdue it!"-Forth he strode,
Paused where the blighted oak-tree show'd
Its sable shadow on the road,
And, folding on his bosom broad
His arms, said, " Speak-I hear."
The Deep Voice said, " O wild of will,
Furious thy purpose to fulfil-
Heart-sear'd and unrepentant still,
How long, O Harold, shall thy tread
Disturb the slumbers of the dead?
Each step in thy wild way thou makest,
The ashes of the dead thou wakest;
And shout in triumph o'er thy path
The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath.
In this thine hour, yet turn and hear!
For life is brief and judgment near."
Then ceased The Voice.-The Dane replied
In tones where awe and inborn pride
For mastery strove,-" In vain ye chide
The wolf for ravaging the flock,
Or with its hardness taunt the rock,-
I am as they-my Danish strain
Sends streams of fire through every vein.
Amid thy realms of goule and ghost,
Say, is the fame of Eric lost,
Or Witikind's the Waster, known
Where fame or spoil was to be won;
Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore
They left not black with flame?→→
He was my sire,—and, sprung of him,
That rover merciless and grim,
Can I be soft and tame?
Part hence, and with my crimes no more upbraid me,
Relentless in his avarice and ire,
Churches and towns he gave to sword and fire;
Shed blood like water, wasted every land,
Like the destroying angel's burning brand;
Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be invented,
Yes- all these things he did he did, but he
REPENTED!
Perchance it is part of his punishment still,
That his offspring pursues his example of ill.
But thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall next shake
Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and awake
If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted soever,
The gate of repentance shall ope for thee NEVER!"—
"He is gone," said Lord Harold, and gazed as he spoke;
"There is nought on the path but the shade of the oak.
He is gone, whose strange presence my feeling op-
press'd,
Like the night-hag that sits on the slumberer's breast.
My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's tread,
And cold dews drop from my brow and my head.—
Ho! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner gave;
He said that three drops would recall from the
For the first time Count Harold owns leech-craft has
Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a flower!"
The page gave the flasket, which Walwayn had fill'd
With the juice of wild roots that his art had
So baneful their influence on all that had breath,
One drop had been frenzy, and two had been death.
Harold took it, but drank not; for jubilee shrill,
And music and clamour were heard on the hill,
And down the steep pathway, o'er stock and o'er
stone,
The train of a bridal came blithesomely on;
There was song, there was pipe, there was timbrel, and still
I am that Waster's son, and am but what he made me." The burden was, "Joy to the fair Metelill!"
Redoubling echoes roll'd about, While echoing cave and cliff sent out
The answering symphony
Of all those mimic notes which dwell In hollow rock and sounding dell.
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
May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams of dismay,
And his waking be worse at the answering day."
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 bereath 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
The fragment which their giant foe
Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw.
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!
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 clench'd,
The foam upon his lip is white,
His deadly arm is up to smite!
But, as the mace 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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