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
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.
The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with the rye,
Before the rude Scots shall Northumberland fly,
And the flint clifts of Bambro' shall melt in the sun,
Before that adventure be peril'd and won.1
"And is this my probation?" wild Harold he said,
"Within a lone castle to press a lone bed?-
Good even, my Lord Bishop,-Saint Cuthbert to bor-
The Castle of Seven Shields receives me to-morrow."
DENMARK'S sage courtier to her princely youth,
Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale,
'I were undeserving his grace, did I not peril it for his good.'-Ivanhoe.
&c. &c."-ADOLPHUS' Letters on the Author of Waverley.
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 backed like a weasel.
Ham. Or, like a whale?
Pol. Very like a whale.'
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,
"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."
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 Voice2 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
thee;
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
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:-
66 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,
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
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 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
Bore 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, 66 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,
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 divineInstant his eye hatb human light,
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright;
His brow relax'd the obdurate frown,
The fatal mace sinks gently down,
He turns and strides away;
Yet oft, like revellers who leave
Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve,
As if repenting the reprieve
He granted to his prey.
Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he given, And fierce Witikind's son made one step towards heaven.
But though his dreaded footsteps part,
Death is behind and shakes his dart;
Lord William on the plain is lying,
Beside him Metelill seems dying !—
Bring odours-essences in haste-
And lo! a flasket richly chased,—
But Jutta the elixir proves
Ere pouring it for those she loves-
Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted,
For when three drops the hag had tasted,
So dismal was her yell,
Each bird of evil omen woke,
The raven gave his fatal croak,
And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak,
The screech-owl from the thicket broke,
And flutter'd down the dell !
So fearful was the sound and stern,
The slumbers of the full-gorged erne
Were startled, and from furze and fern
Of forest and of fell,
The fox and famish'd wolf replied,
(For wolves then prowl'd the Cheviot side.!
From mountain head to mountain head
The unhallow'd sounds around were sped;1
But when their latest echo fled,
The sorceress on the ground lay dead.
Such was the scene of blood and woes, With which the bridal morn arose
Of William and of Metelill; But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread, The summer morn peeps dim and red Above the eastern hill,
Ere, bright and fair, upon his road The King of Splendour walks abroad; So, when this cloud had pass'd away,
1 See a note on the Lord of the Isles, Canto v. st. 31, p. 449,
Bright was the noontide of their day, And all serene its setting ray.
WELL do I hope that this my minstrel tale
Will tempt no traveller from southern fields,
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail,
To view the Castle of these Seven Proud Shields.
Small confirmation its condition yields
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
Of their grave time, have dignified the spot
By theories, to prove the fortress placed
By Roman bands, to curb the invading Scot.
Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I might quote,
But rather choose the theory less civil
Of boors, who, origin of things forgot,
Refer still to the origin of evil,
And for their master-mason choose that master-fiend the Devil.
Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built towers
That stout Count Harold bent his wondering gaze,
When evening dew was on the heather flowers,
And the last sunbeams made the mountain blaze,
And tinged the battlements of other days
With the bright level light ere sinking down.-
Illumined thus, the Dauntless Dane surveys
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,
And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag;
Strath-Clwyd's strange emblem was a stranded boat,
Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag;
A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag;
A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn;
Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag
Surmounted by a cross-such signs were borne
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn.
These scann'd, Count Harold sought the castle-door,
Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to decay;
Yet till that hour adventurous knight forbore
The unobstructed passage to essay.
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