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 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.

Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he given, And fierce Witikind's son made one step towards heaven.

XVIII.

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;
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 noontide of their day, And all serene its setting ray.

CANTO SIXTH.

I.

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,
Refor 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 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 armourcoat,

And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag; Strath-Clwyd's strange emblem was 2 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 wete borne

Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn.

III.

These scann'd, Count Harold sought the castle-door,

Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to decay; Yet till that hour adventurous knight for

bore

The unobstructed passage to essay.

More strong than armed warders in array, And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar, Sate in the portal Terror and Dismay, While Superstition, who forbade to war With foes of other mould than mortal clay, Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd the onward way.

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 that 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 trode.

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;

For these were they who, drunken with delight,

On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their head, For whom the bride's shy footstep, slow and light,

Was changed ere morning to the murderer's tread.

For human bliss and woe 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, judge 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
Through woman rose, the Christian doctrine

saith;

Nor deem I, 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 the secret known,
Thus hath a faithful woman done.'-
Not in each breast such truth is laid,
But Eivir was a Danish maid."-

VIII.

"Thou art a wild enthusiast," said
Count Harold, "for thy Danish maid;
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own
Hers 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 darksome 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 mayst think, should fear invade,
Thy master slumbers nigh."

Thus couch'd they in that dread abode,
Until the beams of dawning glow'd.

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 check
Of mingled awe and wonder speak:
"My Page," he said, "arise;-
Leave we this place, my Page."-No more
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'da sable steed.

Sable their harness, and there came
Through their closed vizors 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 sternly 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 can 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!

XI.

"His sable cowl, flung back, reveal'd The features it before conceal'd;

And, Gunnar, I could find In him whose counsels strove to stay So oft my course on wilful way,

My father Witikind!

Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for mine,
A wanderer upon earth to pine
Until his son shall turn to grace,
And smooth for him a resting-place.--
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 thy 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 hand 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 blush'd like any opening rose,
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek,
Hied back that glove of mail to seek;
When soon a shrick of deadly dread
Summon'd his master to his aid.

XIII.

What sees Count Harold in that bower,
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 thine, 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 wither'd 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 focman's skull.
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove,
The faithful pledge of vassal's love."-

XV.

"Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart,
"I charge thee, hence! whate'er thou art,
I do defy thee--and resist

The kindling frenzy of my breast,
Waked by thy words; and of my mail,
Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail,
Shall rest with thee-that youth release,
And God, or Demon, part in peace."
"Eivir," the Shape replied, "is mine,
Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign.
Think'st thou that priest with drops of spray
Could wash that blood-red mark away?
Or that a borrow'd sex and name
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim?"
Thrill'd this strange speech through Harold's
brain,

He clench'd his teeth in high disdain,
For not his new-born faith subdued
Some tokens of his ancient mood.-
"Now, by the hope so lately given
Of better trust and purer heaven,
I will assail thee, fiend!"-Then rose
His mace, and with a storm of blows
The mortal and the Demon close.

XVI.

Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around,
Darken'd the sky and shook the ground;
But not the artillery of hell,
The bickering lightning, nor the rock
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock,
Could Harold's courage quell.
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept,
And blows on blows resistless heap'd,

Till quail'd that Demon Form,
And-for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will-

Evanish'd in the storm.

Nor paused the Champion of the North, But raised, and bore his Eivir forth, From that wild scene of fiendish strife, To light, to liberty, and life!

XVII.

He placed her on a bank of moss,
A silver runnel bubbled by,
And new-born thoughts his soul engross,
And tremors yet unknown across

His stubborn sinews fly,

The while with timid hand the dew
Upon her brow and neck he threw,
And mark'd how life with rosy hue
On her pale cheek revived anew,

And glimmer'd in her eye.
Inly he said, "That silken tress,-
What blindness mine that could not guess!
Or how could page's rugged dress

That bosom's pride belic?

O, dull of heart, through wild and wave
In search of blood and death to rave,
With such a partner nigh!"

XVIII.

Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd,, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, The stains of recent conflict clear'd,

And thus the Champion proved, That he fears now who never fear'd, And loves who never loved. And Eivir-life is on her cheek, And yet she will not move or speak, Nor will her eyelid fully ope: Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye, Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, Affection's opening dawn to spy; And the deep blush, which bids its dye O'er cheek, and brow, and bosorn fly, Speaks shame-facedness and hope.

XIX.

But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,-
For words, save those of wrath and wrong,
Till now were strangers to his tongue;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said,
(Twere well that maids, when lovers woo,
Heard none more soft, were all as true,)
"Eivir! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,

A Christian knight and Christian bride: And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be said, That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed."