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 these 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,

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 eyestrings would have broke,

And then resolvedly said,
"Be what it will yon phantom grey—
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.”

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 Eric 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 him,

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 in some sudden storm the impulse gave.

"All thou hast said is truth-Yet on the head

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

"There is nought on the path but He is gone, whose strange presence the shade of the oak. Like the night-hag that sits on the my feeling oppress'd,

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 recall from the grave.

For the first time Count Harold owns leech-craft has power,

Or,

his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a flower!"

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,

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 blithesome 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
press'd,

unre

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 dogged by dreams of dismay,

And his waking be worse at the answering day."

XIV.

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,-