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- Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright; Yet oft, like revellers who leave 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, Ere pouring it for those she loves- Each bird of evil omen woke, And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak, The fox and famish'd wolf replied, Bright was the noontide of their day. And all serene its setting ray. Harold the Dauntless. CANTO SIXTH. I. WELL do I hope that this my minstrel tale To view the Castle of these Seven Proud Shields. 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 By theories, to prove the fortress placed Of boors, who, origin of things forgot, And for their master-mason choose that master-fiend the Devil. II. Therefore, 1 say, it was on fiend-built towers 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, A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag; III. These scann'd, Count Harold sought the castle-door, Yet till that hour adventurous knight forbore More strong than armed warders in array, And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar, Sate in the portal Terror and Dismay, While Superstition, who forbade to war With foes of other mould than mortal clay, Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd the onward way. Vain now those spells; for soon with heavy clank The feebly-fasten'd gate was inward push'd, And, as it oped, through that emblazon'd rank Of antique shields, the wind of evening rush'd With sound most like a groan, and then was hush'd. Is none who on such spot such sounds could hear But to his heart the blood had faster rush'd; Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb was dearIt spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch of fear. IV. Yet Harold and his Page no signs have traced Within the castle, that of danger show'd; For still the halls and courts were wild and waste, As through their precincts the adventurers trode. The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, and broad, Each tower presenting to their scrutiny A hall in which a king might make abode, And fast beside, garnish'd both proud and high, Was placed a bower for rest in which a king might lie. As if a bridal there of late had been, And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments sear— Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich woof appear. V. In every bower, as round a hearse, was hung Vests twined with gold, and chains of precious stone, And golden circlets, meet for monarch's head; While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst them thrown, The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust bestrown. For these were they who, drunken with delight, On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their head, 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 circumstances: thus Harold is clád in a kind of armour not worn For whom the bride's shy footstep, slow and light, Of human life are all so closely twined, Nor dare we, from one hour, judge that which coine 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;- Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel skill VII. The minstrel-boy half smiled, half sigh'd, (Our Scalds have said, in dying hour 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. Not in each breast such truth is laid, But Eivir was a Danish maid."— VIII. "Thou art a wild enthusiast," said But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade Thy master slumbers nigh." Thus couch'd they in that dread abode, IX. An alter'd man Lord Harold rose, There's trouble in his eyes, And traces on his brow and cheek "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, The central place of doom; X. "With haggard eyes and streaming hair, Jutta the Sorceress was there, And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain, A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows; Sable their harness, and there came With hell can strive.' The fiend spoke true! As captives know the knell That says the headsman's sword is bare, Commands them quit their cell. I felt resistance was in vain, XI. "His sable cowl, flung back, revcal'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, Until his son shall turn to grace, XII. Trembling at first, and deadly pale, Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale; But when he learned the dubious close, XIII. What sees Count Harold in that bower, So late his resting-place?— The semblance of the Evil Power, Adored by all his race! Such height was his, as when in stone So flow'd his hoary beard; XIV. 66 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 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, 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, 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, I will assail thee, fiend !"-Then rose XVI. Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, 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, His stubborn sinews fly, The while with timid hand the dew And glimmer'd in her eye. That bosom's pride belie? O, dull of heart, through wild and wave 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." 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, And Eivir life is on her cheek, And the deep blush, which bids its dye XIX. But vainly seems the Dane to seek "Eivir! since thou for many a day 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.' 1 Harold the Dauntless,' like The Bridal of Trier main,' 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 warhorse follows with somewhat of a hobbling pace the proud and impetuous courser whom he seeks to rival. Unfortunately, az 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 ther 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 lay so much |