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."

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," 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 gray eye is a flame
Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame.-
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honor'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

1 "Nothing on her," is the reading of the interleaved copy of 1831-"On her naught," 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

For dread of monk or monkib knight -
Up and away, that deepening bell
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell.
Thither will I, in nonner due,
As Jutta bade, ny claim to sue;
And, if to right ne 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, Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute hoof Intruded oft within such sacred fold, [of old.' Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in his fane

Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when the route Of our rude neighbors whilome deign'd to come, Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep out To 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 swel ling 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 own-And such (if fame speak truth) the honor'd Barrington.

And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart." CONGREVE'S Mourning Bride, Act ii. Scene 1. See also Joanna Baillie's " De Montfort," Acts iv, and v. 9 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 Dar ham: the venerable Shute Barrington, their honored 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." [eye, The Prelate look'd round him with sore troubled Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny ;

While each Canon and Deacon who heard the

Dane speak,

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 t heaven;

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

anew

To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,

For the service Saint Cuthbert's bless'd banner to bear, [Wear; When the bands of the North come to foray the Then disturb not our conclave with wrangling or blame, [came." But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye

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 gray."
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 hanu
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.

He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd the oar door,

From the mouth of our minstrels thy task shall be read.

While the wine sparkles high in the goblet of goid, 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.

Anu 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.

[gleam,

As light danced the spindles beneath the cold
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;
With their eyes all on fire, and their daggers all red,
Seven damsels surround the Northumbrian's bed.

"Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have done, Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath won, Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do,

Or the bed of the seventh shall be husbandless too."

Well chanced it that Adolf the night when he wed
Had confess'd and had sain'd him ere boune to his
bed;
[drew,
He sprung from the couch and his broadsword he
And there the seven daughters of Urien he slew.

The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd,
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown and a shield;
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended his way
And died in his cloister an anchorite gray.

Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stow'd,
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

Before the rude Scots shall Northumberland fly, And the flint clifts of Bambro' shall melt in the sun Before that adventure be perill'd and won.'

Were the blood of all my ancestors in my veins, I would have perilled it in this quarrel.'-Waverley.

'I were undeserving his grace, did I not peril it for his good -Ivanhoe.

&c. &c."-ADOLPHUS' Letters on the Author of Waverley