To shew to him the ladye of his heart,
Albeit betwixt them roared the ocean grim;
Yet so the sage had hight to play his part,
That he should see her form in life and limb,
And mark, if still she loved, and still she thought of
Dark was the vaulted room of
gramarye, To which the wizard led the gallant knight, Save that before a mirror, huge and high, A hallowed taper shed a glimmering light On mystic implements of magic might, On cross, and character, and talisman, And almagest, and altar, nothing bright : For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan, As watch-light, by the bed of some departing man.
But soon within that mirror, huge and high;
Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam;
And forms upon its breast, the earl 'gan spy,
Cloudy and indistinct as feverish dream;
Till, slow arranging, and defined they seem
To form a lordly and a lofty room,
Part lighted by a lamp, with silver beam,
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.
Fair all the pageant; but how passing fair
The slender form which lay on couch of Ind!
O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair,
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined;
All in her night robe loose, she lay reclined,
And, pensive, read from tablet, eburnine,
Some strain, that seemed her inmost soul to find:
That favoured strain was Surrey's raptured line,
That fair and lovely form, the ladye Geraldine.
Slow rolled the clouds upon the lovely form,
And swept the goodly vision all away;
So royal envy rolled the murky storm
O'er ray beloved master's glorious day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay
On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,
The gory bridal bed, the plundered shrine,
The murdered Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine!
Both Scots, and southern chiefs prolong
Applauses of Fitztraver's song;
These hated Henry's name as death,
And those still held the ancient faith.
Then, from his seat, with lofty air,
Rose Harold, bard of brave Saint Clair;
Saint Clair, who, feasting high at home,
Had with that lord to battle come.
Harold was born where restless seas
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades;
Where erst Saint Clairs held princely sway,
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay;
Still nods their palace to its fall,
Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall!
Thence oft he marked fierce Pentland rave,
As if grim Odinn rode her wave;
And watched, the whilst, with visage pale,
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail,
For all of wonderful and wild
Had rapture for the lonely child.
And much of wild and wonderful,
In these rude isles, might fancy cull;
For thither came, in times afar,
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war,
The Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the raven's food;
Kings of the main, their leaders brave,
Their barks, the dragons of the wave;
And there in many a stormy vale,
The Scald had told his wond'rous tale;
And many a Runic column high
Had witnessed grim idolatry.
And thus had Harold, in his youth,
Learned many a Saga's rhyme uncouth,
Of that sea-snake, tremendous curled,
Whose monstrous circle girds the world;
Of those dread maids, whose hideous yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell;
Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransacked the graves of warriors old,
Their faulchions wrenched from corpse's hold,
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
And bade the dead arise to arms !
With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,
Where, by sweet glen and green-wood tree,
He learned a milder minstrelsy;
Yet something of the nothern spell
Mixed with the softer numbers well.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell : Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
"The blackening wave is edged with white;
To Inch* and rock the seamews fly;
The fishers have heard the Watersprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
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