CANTO V. I.

DENMARK'S sage courtier to her princely youth,
Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale,
Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial truth;
For phantasy 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 phantasy with pencil wild portrays,
Blending what seems and is, in the rapt 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 fancy gave half the share. II.

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 gray From the adjoining cliff had made descent,A barren mass-yet with her drooping spray, Had a young birch-tree crowned its battlement, Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, flaw, and rent.

This rock and tree could Gunnar's thought engage, Till fancy brought the tear-drop to his eye, And at his master asked the timid page,

"What is the emblem that a bard should 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."
III.

"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,
Though destined by thy evil star

With one like me to rove,

Whose business and whose joys are found
Upon the bloody battle-ground.
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art,
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart,
And thou and I will never part;
Harold would wrap the world in flame
Ere injury on Gunnar came."

IV.

The grateful page made no reply,
But turn'd to heaven his gentle eye,
And clasp'd his hands, as one who said,
"My toils-my wanderings are o'erpaid!"

Then in a gayer, lighter strain,
Compell'd himself to speech again;
And, as they flow'd along,

His words took cadence soft and slow,
And liquid, like dissolving snow,
They melted into song.

V.

"What though through fields of carnage wide
I may not follow Harold's stride,
Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride
Lord Harold's feats can see?

And dearer than the couch of pride
He loves the bed of gray wolf's hide,
When slumbering by lord Harold's side,
In forest, field, or lea."

VI.

"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 could'st 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."
VII.

Count Harold gazed upon the oak
As if his eye-strings would have broke,
And then resolvedly said,

"Be what it will, yon phantom gray,
Nor 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.

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."

VIII.

The deep voice 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."
IX.

Then ceased the voice. -The Dane replied
In tones where awe and inborn pride
For mastery strove,-"In vain ve 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 Erick 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 lum,
That rover merciless, and grim,

Can I be soft and tame?

Part hence, and with my crimes no more upbraid

me,

I am that Waster's son, and am but what he made me."

X.

The phantom groan'd; the mountain shook around,
The fawn and wild-doe started at the sound,
The gorse and fern did wildly round them wave,
As if some sudden storm the impulse gave.
"All thou hast said is truth-Yet on the head
Of that bad sire let not the charge be laid,
That he, like thee, with unrelenting pace,
From grave to cradle ran the evil race:
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 RE-
PENTED!

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 thee,

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!" XI.

"He is gone," said lord Harold, and gazed as he spoke;

"There is nought on the path but the shade of the oak

He is gone, whose strange presence my feelings

oppress'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 recal from the

has power,

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 distill'd

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 blithsomely on; There was song, there was pipe, there was timbrel, and still

The burden was, "Joy to the fair Metelill!"

XII.

Harold might see from his high stance,
Himself unseen, that train advance

With mirth and melody;

On horse and foot a mingled throng,
Measuring their steps to bridal song
And bridal minstrelsy;

And ever when the blithsome rout
Lent to the song their choral shout,
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.
XIII.

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 dew-drop on the budding rose;
While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared
The joy that selfish avarice shared,
And pleased revenge and malice high
Its 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:-
"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, "Then
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 dogg'd by dreams of dismay,
And his waking be worse at the answering day!"

XIV.

Such was their various mode 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 threatened fall-
The fragment which their giant foe
Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw.
XV.
Backward they bore;-yet are there twe
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!

XVI.

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!
XVII.

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, "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 signed the cross divine-
Instant his eye hath 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.

XVIII.

But though his dreaded footsteps part, Death is behind and shakes his dart:

Lord William on the plain is lying,
Beside him Metelill scems 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;
But when their latest echo fled,

The sorceress on the ground lay dead.
XIX.

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,
Bright was the noon-tide of their day,
And all serene its setting ray.

CANTO VI. 1.

WELL do I hope that this my minstrel tale
Will tempt no traveller from southern fie
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 faney builds, And, save a fosse which 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 hands, 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.

II.

Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built towers That stout count Harold bent his wond'ring gaze, When evening dew was on the heather flowers, And the last sunbeams bade the mountain blaze, And tinged the battlements of other days

With a 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 re

'nown.

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 hat throb was dear, It 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 strode.
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,

Deck'd stood the table in each gorgeous hall; And yet it was two hundred years, I ween, Since date of that unhallow'd festival. Flagons, and ewers, and standing cups, were all Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, With throne begilt, and canopy of pall,

And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments

For these were they who, drunken with delight, On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their head,

For human bliss and wo in the frail thread
Of human life are all so closely twined,
That till the shears of fate the texture shred,
The close succession cannot be disjoin'd,
Nor dare we from one hour "udge that which comes
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; And, "Well," he said, "hath woman's perfidy, Empty as air, as water volatile,

Been here avenged. The origin of ill

Thro' woman rose, the christian doctrine saith; Nor deem 1, Gunnar, that thy minstrel skill Can show example where a woman's breath Hath made a true-love vow, and tempted, kept her

faith."

VII.

The minstrel boy half smiled, half sigh'd,
And his half filling eyes he dried,
And said, "The theme I should but wrong,
Unless it were my dying song,
(Our scalds have said in dying hour
The northern harp has treble power,)
Else could I tell of woman's faith
Defying danger, scorn, and death.
Firm was that faith-as diamond stone
Pure and unflaw'd-her love unknown,
And unrequited; firm and pure,
Her stainless faith could all endure;
From clime to clime-from place to place-
Through want, and danger, and disgrace,
A wanderer's wayward steps could trace.
All this she did, and guerdon none
Required, save that her burial-stone
Should make at length her secret known:
Thus hath a faithful woman done.
Not in each breast such truth is laid,
But Eivir was a Danish maid."

"Thou art a wild enthusiast," said
Count Harold, "for thy Danish maid;
And yet, young Gunnar, 1 will own
Her's were a faith to rest upon.
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone,
And all resembling her are gone.
What maid e'er show'd such constancy
In plighted faith, like thine to me?
But couch thee, boy; the dark some shade
Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd

Because the dead are by.
They were as we; our little day
O'erspent, and we shall be as they.
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid,
Thy couch upon my mantle made,
That thou may'st think, should fear invade,
Thy master slumbers nigh.
Thus couch'd they in that dread abode
Until the beams of dawning glow'd.

"

Nor more

IX.
An alter'd man lord Harold rose,
When he beheld that dawn unclose-
There's trouble in his eyes,
And traces on his brow and cheek
Of mingled awe and wonder speak:
"My page," he said, "arise;
Leave we this place, my page.'
He utter'd till the castle door
They cross'd-but there he paused and said,
"My wildness hath awaked the dead—
Disturb'd the sacred tomb!
Methought this night I stood on high
Where Hecla roars in middle sky,
And in her cavern'd gulfs could spy
The central place of doom!
And there before my mortal eye
Souls of the dead came flitting by,
Whom fiends, with many a fiendish cry,
Bore to that evil den!

My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain
Was wilder'd, as the elvish train,
With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain
Those who had late been men.

X.

"With haggard eyes and streaming hair,
Jutta, the sorceress, was there,
And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain,
All crush'd and foul with bloody stain.
More had I seen, but that uprose
A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows;
And with such sound as when at need
A champion spurs his horse to speed,
Three armed knights rush on, who lead
Caparison'd a sable steed.

Sable their harness, and there came
Through their closed visors sparks of flame.
The first proclaim'd, in sounds of fear,
Harold the Dauntless, welcome here!'
The next cried, Jubilee! we've won
Count Witikind the Waster's son!'
And the third rider steraly spoke,
Mount, in the name of Zernebock!
From us, O Harold, were thy powers,
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are ours;
Nor think, a vassal thou of hell,

With hell canst strive.' The fiend spoke true!
My inmost soul the summons knew,

As captives know the knell,

That says the headsman's sword is bare,
And with an accent of despair

Commands them quit their cell.

I felt resistance was in vain,

My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en,
My hand was on the fatal mane,
When to my rescue sped
That palmer's visionary form,
And, like the passing of a storm,
The demons yell'd and fled!

Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain
This world of wretchedness and pain:
I'll tame my wilful heart to live
In peace-to pity and forgive--
And thou, for so the vision said,
Must in thy lord's repentance aid.
Thy mother was a prophetess,"
He said, "who by her skill could guess
How close the fatal textures join
Which knit that thread of life with mine,
Then, dark, he hinted of disguise
She framed to cheat too curious eyes,
That not a moment might divide
Thy fated footsteps from my side.
Methought, while thus my sire did teach,
I caught the meaning of his speech,
Yet seems its purport doubtful now."
His band then sought his thoughtful brow,
Then first he mark'd, that in the tower
His glove was left at waking hour.

XII.

Trembling at first, and deadly pale,
Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale;
But when he learn'd the dubious close,
He blushed like any opening rose,
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek,
Hied back that glove of mail to seek;
When soon a shriek of deadly dread
Summon'd his master to his aid.

XIII.

What sees count Harold in that bowes,
So late his resting place?
The semblance of the Evil Power,
Adored by all his race!
Odin in living form stood there,
His cloak the spoils of polar bear;
For plumy crest, a meteor shed
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head,
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty
To the wild lightnings of his eye.
Such height was his, as when in stone
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown;
So flow'd his hoary beard;
Such was his lance of mountain-pine,
So did his sevenfold buckler shine;
But when his voice he rear'd,
Deep, without harshness, slow and strong,
The powerful accents roll'd along,

And, while he spoke, his hand was laid
On captive Gunnar's shrinking head.

XIV.

"Harold," he said, "What rage is thre
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 withered by a nod.

Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat,
Deserved by many a dauntless feat
Among the heroes of thy line,
Eric and fiery Thorarine?
Thou wilt not. Only I can give
The joys for which the valiant live,
Victory and vengeance--only I
Can give the joys for which they die,
The immortal tilt-the banquet full,
The brimming draught from foeman's skull.
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove,
The faithful pledge of vassal's love."