"Profane not, youth-it is not thine

To judge the spirit of our line-
The bold Berserkar's rage divine,

Through whose inspiring, deeds are wrought

Past human strength and human thought.
When full upon his gloomy soul

The champion feels the influence roll,
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall-
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall-
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes
Singly against a host of foes;

Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds,
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds;
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive,
Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
Then rush the eagles to his cry
Of slaughter and of victory,-

And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl,

Deep drinks his sword,-deep drinks his soul;

And all that meet him in his ire

He gives to ruin, rout, and fire;
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
And couches till he's man agen.-
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb,
When 'gins that rage to overbrim-
Thou know'st when I am moved, and why;
And when thou see'st me roll mine eye,
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute;
But else speak boldly out whate'er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour;-
So Christian monks are wont to say
Demons of old were charm'd away;
Then fear not I will rashly deem
Ill of thy speech, whate'er the theme."

IX.

As down some strait in doubt and dread
The watchful pilot drops the lead,
And, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,
The Page his master's brow observed,
Pausing at intervals to fling

His hand o'er the melodious string,
And to his moody breast apply
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song convey'd the rest.-

Song.

1.

"Ill fares the bark with tackle riven, And ill when on the breakers driven,― I when the storm-sprite shrieks in air, And the scared mermaid tears her hair; But worse when on her helm the hand Of some false traitor holds command.

4.

""Tis hers the manly sports to love

That southern maidens fear,

To bend the bow by stream and grove,

And lift the hunter's spear. She can her chosen champion's flight With eye undazzled see, Clasp him victorious from the strife, Or on his corpse yield up her life,A Danish maid for me!"

XI.

Then smiled the Dane-"Thou canst so well
The virtues of our maidens tell,

Half could I wish my choice had been
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen,
And lofty soul;-yet what of ill
Hast thou to charge on Metelill?"—
"Nothing on her," 1 young Gunnar said,
"But her base sire's ignoble trade.
Her mother, too-the general fame
Hath given to Jutta evil name,
And in her grey eye is a flame

Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame.-
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honour'd footsteps sought,
And twice return'd with such ill rede
As sent thee on some desperate deed."-

XII.

"Thou errest; Jutta wisely said,
He that comes suitor to a maid,
Ere link'd in marriage, should provide
Lands and a dwelling for his bride-
My father's, by the Tyne and Wear,
I have reclaim'd."-" O, all too dear,
And all too dangerous the prize,

E'en were it won," young Gunnar cries ;-
"And then this Jutta's fresh device,
That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane,
From Durham's priests a boon to gain,
When thou hast left their vassals slain
In their own halls!"-Flash'd Harold's eye,
Thunder'd his voice-"False Page, you lie !
The castle, hall and tower, is mine,
Built by old Witikind on Tyne.
The wild-cat will defend his den,
Fights for her nest the timid wren;
And think'st thou I'll forego my right
For dread of monk or monkish knight?—

"Nothing on her," is the reading of the interleaved copy of 1831-" On her nought," in all the former editions.

"All is hush'd, and still as death-'tis dreadful!
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight. The tombs

Up and away, that deepening bell
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell.
Thither will I, in manner due,
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue;
And, if to right me they are loth,
Then woe to church and chapter both!"
Now shift the scene, and let the curtain fall,
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's hall.

Harold the Dauntless.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

FULL many a bard hath sung the solemn gloom Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribb'd roof, O'er-canopying shrine, and gorgeous tomb, Carved screen, and altar glimmering far aloof, And blending with the shade-a matchless proof Of high devotion, which hath now wax'd cold; 2 Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute hoof Intruded oft within such sacred fold,

Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in his fane of old.

Well pleased am 1, howe'er, that when the route Of our rude neighbours whilome deign'd to come, Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep out And cleanse our chancel from the rags of Rome, They spoke not on our ancient fane the doom To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their own, But spared the martyr'd saint and storied tomb, Though papal miracles had graced the stone, And though the aisles still loved the organ's swelling

tone.

And deem not, though 'tis now my part to paint A Prelate sway'd by love of power and gold, That all who wore the mitre of our Saint Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold; Since both in modern times and days of old It sate on those whose virtues might atone Their predecessors' frailties trebly told: Matthew and Morton we as such may ownAnd such (if fame speak truth) the honour'd Barring ton.4

And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart."

CONGREVE'S Mourning Bride, Act ii. Scene L See also Joanna Baillie's "De Montfort," Acts iv. and v. 3 See, in the Apocryphal Books, "The History of Bel and the Dragon."

4 See, for the lives of Bishop Matthew and Bishop Morton, here alluded to, Mr. Surtees's History of the Bishopric of Durham: the venerable Shute Barrington, their honoured successor, ever a kind friend of Sir Walter Scott, died in 1826.

II.

But now to earlier and to ruder times,
As subject meet, I tune my rugged rhymes,
Telling how fairly the chapter was met,
And rood and books in seemly order set;
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the hand
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd,
Now on fair carved desk display'd,
"Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid.
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced,
And quaint devices interlaced,

A labyrinth of crossing rows,

The roof in lessening arches shows;
Beneath its shade placed proud and high,
With footstool and with canopy,
Sate Aldingar,-and prelate ne'er

More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's chair;
Canons and deacons were placed below,
In due degree and lengthen'd row.
Unmoved and silent each sat there,
Like image in his oaken chair;

Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd,
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard;
And of their eyes severe alone
The twinkle show'd they were not stone.

III.

The Prelate was to speech address'd,
Each head sunk reverent on each breast;
But ere his voice was heard-without
Arose a wild tumultuous shout,
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear,
Such as in crowded streets we hear
Hailing the flames, that, bursting out,
Attract yet scare the rabble rout.
Ere it had ceased, a giant hand
Shook oaken door and iron band,

Till oak and iron both gave way,

Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray, And, ere upon angel or saint they can call, Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of the hall.

IV.

"Now save ye, my masters, both rocket and rood,
From Bishop with mitre to Deacon with hood!
For here stands Count Harold, old Witikind's son,
Come to sue for the lands which his ancestors won."
The Prelate look'd round him with sore troubled eye,
Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny;

To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,

For the service Saint Cuthbert's bless'd banner to bear, When the bands of the North come to foray the Wear; Then disturb not our conclave with wrangling or

blame,

But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye came."

V.

Loud laugh'd the stern Pagan,-" They're free from the care

Of fief and of service, both Conyers and Vere,-
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need,
A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead.—
Ho, Gunnar!-the tokens ;"-and, sever'd anew,
A head and a hand on the altar he threw.
Then shudder'd with terror both Canon and Monk,
They knew the glazed eye and the countenance
shrunk,

And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled hair,
And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic Vere.
There was not a churchman or priest that was there,
But grew pale at the sight, and betook him to prayer.

VI.

Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of fear:
"Was this the hand should your banner bear
Was that the head should wear the casque
In battle at the Church's task?
Was it to such you gave the place
Of Harold with the heavy mace?
Find me between the Wear and Tyne
A knight will wield this club of mine,-
Give him my fiefs, and I will say
There's wit beneath the cowl of grey."
He raised it, rough with many a stain,
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting brain;
He wheel'd it that it shrilly sung,

And the aisles echo'd as it swung,

Then dash'd it down with sheer descent,

And split King Osric's monument.—

"How like ye this music? How trow ye the hand That can wield such a mace may be reft of its land! No answer?-I spare ye a space to agree, And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if he be. Ten strides through your chancel, ten strokes on your bell,

And again I am with you-grave fathers, farewell."

VII.

To be safely at home would have fasted a week:Then Aldingar roused him, and answer'd again, "Thou suest for a boon which thou canst not obtain; The Church hath no fiefs for an unchristen'd Dane. Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath given, That the priests of a chantry might hymn him to heaven;

And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd as his due, Have lapsed to the Church, and been granted anew

door,

And the clang of his stride died away on the floor; And his head from his bosom the Prelate uprears With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost disappears. "Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give me your

rede,

For never of counsel had Bishop more need!
Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and in bone,
The language, the look, and the laugh were his

own.

In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is not a knight
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."

VIII.

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,

Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent,
Are still to mystic learning lent ;-
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope,
Thou well mayst give counsel to Prelate or Pope."

XI.

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
more!

The step of the Pagan approaches the door."

The churchmen were hush'd.-In his mantle of skin,

vine,

With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine

On an oaken cake and a draught of the Tyne.

IX.

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.

X.

"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?"

XII.

"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."

XIII.

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.