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HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS:

A POEM, IN SIX CANTOS.

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From county-ball, or race occurring rare,

While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare.

Ennui!-or, as our mothers call'd thee, Spleen!

To thee we owe full many a rare device;

Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I ween,

The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling dice,

The turning-lathe for framing gimcrack nice;

The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou mayst claim,

Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice,

(Murders disguised by philosophic name,)

And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom game.

Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy glance

Compiled, what bard the catalogue may quote!

Plays, poems, novels, never read but

once ;

But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote,

That bears thy name, and is thine antidote;

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Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung, Fearful and faintly the grey brothers sung, "Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from fire,

Made his peace, and, stooping his head, Patiently listed the counsel they said: Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and grave,

From famine and pest, and Count Witi-Wise and good was the counsel he gave.

kind's ire!"

III.

He liked the wealth of fair England so well,

That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell.

He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour, And disembark'd with his Danish power. Three Earls came against him with all their train,

Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain. Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand,

And he wasted and warr'd in Northumberland.

But the Saxon King was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought;
And the Count took upon him the peace-
able style

Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle.

IV.

Time will rust the sharpest sword,
Time will consume the strongest cord;
That which moulders hemp and steel,
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.

Of the Danish band, whom Count Witikind led,

Many wax'd aged, and many were dead: Himself found his armour full weighty to bear,

Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair;

He lean'd on a staff, when his step went abroad,

And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode.

As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased, He made himself peace with prelate and priest;

V.

"Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,

Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd; Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn, Time it is now to repentance to turn; Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish rite,

Leave now the darkness, and wend into light:

O! while life and space are given,
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!”
That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly
gazed;

"Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne,

My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto thine."

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But such was the grisly old proselyte's look, That the priest who baptized him grew pale and shook;

And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood,

"Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good!"

VII.

Up then arose that grim convertite,

IX.

What priest-led hypocrite art thou, With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow,

Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his Vow?

Can'st thou be Witikind the Waster

known,

Royal Eric's fearless son,

Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,

Homeward he hied him when ended the Who won his bride by the axe and sword;

rite;

The Prelate in honour will with him ride, And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side. Banners and banderols danced in the wind, Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind;

Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne; And full in front did that fortress lower, In darksome strength with its buttress and tower:

At the castle gate was young Harold there, Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.

VIII.

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardihood,

His strength of frame, and his fury of mood.

Rude he was and wild to behold,
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,
Cap of vair nor rich array,

Such as should grace that festal day:
His doublet of bull's hide was all un-
braced,

Uncover'd his head, and his sandal unlaced:

His shaggy black locks on his brow hung low,

And his eyes glanced through them a swarthy glow;

From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice

who tore,

And melted to bracelets for Freya and Thor;

With one blow of his gauntlet who burst the skull,

Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain Bull?

Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to war-gods belong,

With the deed of the brave, and the blow of the strong;

And now, in thine age to dotage sunk, Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,

Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of hair,

Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou bear?

Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower To batten with priest and with paramour? Oh! out upon thine endless shame! Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,

And thy son will refuse thee a father's

name!"

X.

Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look, His faltering voice with fury shook :— "Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart! Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert. Thine outrage insane I command thee to cease,

A Danish club in his hand he bore,
The spikes were clotted with recent gore;
At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-Fear my wrath and remain at peace:—
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid,
Richly the church has a recompense made,
And the truth of her doctrines I prove
with my blade,

cubs twain,

In the dangerous chase that morning slain. Rude was the greeting his father he made, None to the Bishop,-while thus he said:

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373 The nerce old Count unsheathed his brand,

But the calmer Prelate stay'd his hand.
"Let him pass free!-Heaven knows its
hour,-

Pray and weep, and penance bear,
But he must own repentance's power,
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the
Wear."

Thus in scorn and in wrath from his
father is gone

Young Harold the Dauntless, Count
Witikind's son.

XIII.

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall, Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all;

And e'en the good Bishop was fain to endure

The scandal, which time and instruction might cure:

It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first to restrain,

In his wine and his wassail, a halfchristen'd Dane.

The mead flow'd around, and the ale was drain'd dry,

Wild was the laughter, the song, and the

cry;

The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan,
With Kyrie Eleison, came clamorously in

Till man after man the contention gave
and Finn.
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd
o'er,

And the tempest within, having ceased its
the hall floor;

wild rout,

Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd without.

XIV.

Apart from the wassail, in turret alone, Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermengarde's son;

In the train of Lord Harold that Page For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde was the first,

nursed;

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