A Danish club in his hand he bore,
The spikes were clotted with recent gore;
At his back a she wolf, and her wolf cubs twain,
Dthe dangerous chase that morning slain.
Rude was the greeting to his father he made,
None to the bishop-while thus he said:

IX.

"What priest-led hypocrite art thou,
With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his vow?
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,

Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,
Who won his bride by the axe and sword:
From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice who tore,
And melted to bracelets for Freya and Thor;
With one blow of his gauntlet who bursted the skull,
Before Odin's stone, of the mountain bull?

Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to war-gods belong,

With the deed of the brave, and the blow of the strong,

And now, in thine age, to dotage sunk,
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of hair,
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou bear?
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower
To batten with priest and with paramour?
*O! out upon thine endless shame!

Each scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,
And thy son will refuse thee a father's name!"

X.

Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look,
His faultering voice with fury shook;-
"Hear me, Harold, of harden'd heart!
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert.

Thine outrage insane I command thee to cease,
Fear my wrath and remain at peace:--

Just is the debt of repentance I've paid,
Richly the church has a recompense made,

A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung,
Laid his hand on the pommel and into it sprung;
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan,
When the holy sign on the earth was thrown!
The fierce old count unsheathed his brand,
But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand;
"Let him pass free!--Heaven knows its hour-
But he must own repentance's power,
Pray and weep,, and penance bear,

Ere he old land by the Tyne and the Wear."-
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father gone
Young Harold the Dauntless, count Witikind's
XIII.

son.

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall,
Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all;
And e'en the good bishop was fain to endure
The scandal which time and instruction might

strain,

In his wine and his wassail, a half-christen'd Dane. The mead flow'd around, and the ale was drain'd dry,

Wild was the laughter, the song, and the cry;
With Kyrie Eleison came clamorously in
The war-songs of Danesman, Norweyan, and Finn,
Till man after man the contention gave o'er,
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the hall
floor;

And the tempest within, having ceased its wild rout,

Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd without.
XIV.

Apart from the wassail, in turret alone,
Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermengarde's son;
In the train of lord Harold the page was the first,
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde nursed;
And grieved was young Gunnar his master should

roam,

Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from home.

blade.

For me, I am yet what thy lessons have made, 1 was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a blade; An infant, was taught to clap hands and to shout, From the roofs of the tower when the flame had broke out;

In the blood of slain foemen my finger to dip, And tinge with its purple my cheek and my lip.-'Tis thou know'st not truth, that has barter'd in eld, For a price, the brave faith that thine ancestors When this wolf"—and the carcass he flung on the plain

held.

"Shall awake and give food to her nurslings again, The face of his father will Harold review; Till then, aged heathen, young christian, adieu!"

XII.

Priest, monk, and prelate stood aghast,
As through the pageant the heathen pass'd.

He saw the red lightning through shot-hole and pane;

"And oh!" said the page, "on the shelterless wold

Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and cold! What though he was stubborn, and wayward, and

wild,

He endur'd ine because I was Ermengarde's child,
Aud often from dawn till the set of the sun,
In the chase, by his stirrup, unchidden I run:
1 would I were older, and knighthood could bear,
I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne and the
Wear;

For my mother's command with her last parting breath,

Bade me follow her nursling in life and to death. XV.

As if Lok, the destroyer, had burst from his chain! "It pours and it thunders, it lightens amain, Accursed by the church, and expell'd by his sire, Nor christain nor Dane give him shelter or fire, And this tempest what mortal may houseless enUnaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor! dure? Whate'er comes of Gunnar he tarries not here.” He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd to his spear, Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturbed by his tread,

The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the dead:

"Ungrateful and bestial!" his anger broke forth, "To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of the North!

And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have plenty in

store,

Must give Gunnar for rausom a palfrey and ore." XVI.

Then heeding full little of ban or of curse,
He has siezed on the prior of Jorvaux's purse:
Saint Meneholt's abbot next morning has miss'd
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to the wrist:
The seneschal's keys from his belt he has ta'en,
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hildebrand's
brain.)

To the stable-yard he made his way,
And mounted the bishop's palfrey gay,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast,

And right on his way to the moorland has pass'd.
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;
So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd,
There answer'd a steed that was bound beside,
And the red flash of lightning show'd there where
lay

His master, lord Harold, outstretch'd on the clay.

XVII.

Up he started, and thunder'd out, "Stand!"
And rais'd the club in his deadly hand.
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told,
Show'd the palfrey and proffer'd the gold.

Back, back, and home, thou simple boy!
Thou can'st not share my grief or joy:
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry
When thou hast seen a sparrow die?
And can'st thou, as my follower should,
Wade ancle-deep through foeman's blood,
Dare mortal and immortal foe,
The gods above, the fiends below,
And man on earth, more hateful still,
The very fountain head of ill?
Desperate of life, and careless of death,

Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and scathe,
Such must thou be with me to roam,

And such thou canst not be---back, and home!"
XVIII.

Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough,
As he beard the harsh voice and beheld the dark
brow,

And half he repented his purpose and vow.
But now to draw back were bootless shame,
And he loved his master, so urged his claim:
"Alas! if my arm and my courage be weak,
Bear with me a while for old Ermengarde's sake;
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith,
As to fear he would break it for peril of death.
Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold,
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from cold?
And, did I bear a baser mind,
What lot remains if I stay behind?
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath,
A dungeon and a shameful death."

XIX.

With gentler look lord Harold eyed
The page, then turn'd his head aside;
And either a tear did his eye lash stain,
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain.

Art thou an outcast then?" quoth he, "The meeter page to follow me." "Twere bootless to tell what climes they sought, Ventures achieved, and battles fought;

How oft with few, how oft alone,
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won.
Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red
When each other glance was quench'd with dread,
Bore oft a light of deadiy flame
That ne'er from mortal courage came.
Those limos so strong, that mood so stern,
That loved the couch of heath and fern,
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town,
More than to rest on driven down;
Men deem'd must come of aught but good;
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood,
And they whisper'd, the great master fiend was at

one

With Harold the Dauntless, count Witikind's son.
XX.

Years after years had gone and fled,
The good old prelate lies lapp'd in lead;
In the chapel still is shown

His sculptured form on a marble stone,
With staff and ring and scapulaire,
And folded hands in the act of prayer.
Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now
On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's brow;
The power of his crozier he loved to extend
O'er whatever would break or whatever would
bend:

And now hath he cloth'd him in cope and in pall,
And the chapter of Durham has met at his call.
"And hear ye not, brethren," the proud bishop

said,

"That our vassal, the Danish count Witikind's dead?

All his gold and his goods hath he given

To holy church for the love of heaven,
And hath founded a chantry with stipend and dole,
That priests and that beadsmen may pray for his
soul;

Harold his son is wandering abroad,

Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God;
Meet it is not, that such should heir

The lands of the church on the Tyne and the Wear;
And at her pleasure, her hallow'd hands
May now resume these wealthy lands."--
XXI.

Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old,
"Harold is tameless, and furious, and bold;
Ever renown blows a note of fame,

And a note of fear, when she sounds his name:
Much of bloodshed and much of scathe
Have been their lot who have waked his wrath.
Leave him these lands and lordships still,
But if reft of gold, and of living bare,
Heaven in its hour may change his will;
An evil counsellor is despair."-

More had he said, but the prelate frown'd,
And murmur'd his brethren, who sate around,
And with one consent have they giv'n their doom,
That the church should the lands of St. Cuthbert

resume.

So will'd the prelate; and canon and dean, Gave to his judgment their loud amen.

CANTO II. I.

'Tis merry in greenwood, thus runs the old lay,
In the gladsome month of lively May,
When the wild birds' song on stem and spray
Invites to forest bower;

Then rears the ash his airy crest,
Then shines the birch in silver vest,

And the beech in glistening leaves is dress'd,
And dark between shows the oak's proud breast,
Like a chieftain's frowning tower;
Though a thousand branches join their screen,
Yet the broken sun-beams glance between,
And tip the leaves with lighter green,

With brighter tints the flower;
Dull is the heart that loves not then
The deep recess of the wild-wood glen,
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den,
When the sun is in his power.

II.

III.

IV.

Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair,
So heaven decreed, a daughter fair;
None brighter crown'd the bed,
In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince,
Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since
In this fair isle been bred.
And nought of fraud, or ire, or ill,
Was known to gentle Metelill,

A simple maiden she;

The spells in dimpled smiles that lie,

And a downcast blush, and the darts that fly
With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye,
Were her arms and witchery.
So young, so simple was she yet,
She scarce could childhood's joys forget,
And still she loved, in secret set

Beneath the green-wood tree,
To plait the rushy coronet,

And braid with flowers her locks of jet,
As when in infancy;-

VI.

SONG,

"Lord William was born in gilded bower,
The heir of Wilton's lofty tower;
Yet better loves lord William now
To roam beneath wild Rookhope's brow;
And William has lived where ladies fair
With gauds and jewels deck their hair,
Yet better loves the dew-drops still
That pearl the locks of Metelill.
"The pious palmer loves, I wis,
Saint Cuthbert's hallow'd beads to kiss;
But I, though simple girl I be,
Might have such homage paid to me;
For did lord William see me suit
This necklace of the bramble's fruit,
He fain-but must not have his will,—
Would kiss the beads of Metelill.

My nurse has told me many a tale,
How vows of love are weak and frail;
My mother says that courtly youth
By rustic maid means seldom sooth.
What should they mean? it cannot be,
That such a warning's meant for me,
For nought--oh! nought of fraud or ill
Can William mean to Metelill!"-

VII.

Sudden she stops--and starts to feel
A weighty hand, a glove of steel,
Upon her shrinking shoulders laid;
Fearful she turn'd, and saw, dismay'd,
A knight in plate and mail array'd,
His crest and bearing worn and fray'd,
His surcoat soil'd and riven;
Form'd like that giant race of yore,
Whose long-continued crimes outwore
The sufferance of heaven.

Stern accents made his pleasure known,
Though then he used his gentlest tone:
"Maiden," he said, “sing forth thy glee;
Start uot--sing on-it pleases me."
VIII.
Secured within his powerful hold,
To bend her knee, her hands to fold,
Was all the maiden might;
And "Oh! forgive," she faintly said,
"The terrors of a simple maid,

If thou art mortal wight!

But if--of such strange tales are told,—
Unearthly warrior of the wold,

Thou com'st to chide mine accents bold,
My mother, Jutta, knows the spell,
At noon and midnight pleasing well,

"Damsel," he said, " be wise, and learn Matters of weight and deep concern:

From distant realms I come,

And, wanderer long, at length have planned
In this my native northern land

To seek myself a home.
Nor that alone-a mate I seek;
She must be gentle, soft, and meek,-
No lordly dame for me:

Myself am something rough of mood,
And feel the fire of royal blood,
And therefore do not hold it good
To match in my degree:
Then, since coy maidens say my face
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace,
For a fair lineage to provide,
'Tis meet that my selected bride
In lineaments be fair;

I love thine well-till now I ne'er
Look'd patient on a face of fear,
But now that tremulous sob and tear
Become thy beauty rare.
One kiss-nay, damsel, coy it not;
And now, go seek thy parents' cot,
And say, a bridegroom soon I come,
To woo my love and bear her home."

X.

Home sprung the maid without a pause
As levret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws;
But still she lock'd, howe'er distress'd,
The secret in her boding breast;
Dreading her sire, who oft forbade
Her steps should stray to distant glade.
Night came to her accustom'd nook
Her distaff aged Jutta took,
And, by the lamp's imperfect glow,
Rough Wulistane trimm'd his shafts and bow.
Sudden and clamorous, from the ground
Upstarted slumbering brach and hound;
Loud knocking next the lodge alarms,
And Wulfstane snatches at his arms,
When open flew the yielding door,
And that grim warrior press'd the floor.
XI.

"All peace be here-What! none replies?
Dismiss your fears and your surprise.
Tis I-that maid hath told my tale,
Or, trembler, did thy courage fail?
It reeks not-it is I demand
Fair Metelill in marriage band;
Harold the Dauntless I, whose name

1s brave men's boast and caitiff's shame."
The parents sought each other's eyes,
With awe, resentment, and surprise:
Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began
The stranger's size and thewes to scan;

But, as he scann'd, his courage sunk,
And from unequal strife he shrunk.
Then forth, to blight and blemish, flies
The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes;
Yet fatal howsoe'er the spell
On Harold innocently fell!
And disappointment and amaze
Were in the witch's wilder'd gaze.

xn.

But soon the wit of woman woke,
And to the warrior mild she spoke:
"Her child was all too young."-" A toy,
The refuge of a maiden coy.'
Again, "A powerful baron's heir
Claims in her heart an interest fair."
"A trifle-whisper in his ear
That Harold is a suitor here!"
Baffled at length, she sought delay:
"Would not the knight till morning stay?
Late was the hour-he there might rest,
Till morn, their lodge's honoured guest.'
Such were her words-her craft might cast,
Her honour'd guest should sleep his last:
"No, not to night-but soon," he swore,
"He would return, nor leave them more."
The threshold then his huge stride crost,
And soon he was in darkness lost.
XIII.
Appall'd awhile the parents stood,
Then changed their fear to angry mood,
And foremost fell their words of ill
On unresisting Metelill:

Was she not cautioned and forbid,
Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and chid,
And must she still to greenwood roam,
To marshal such misfortune home?
"Hence, minion-to thy chamber hence,
There prudence learn and penitence.'
She went-her lonely couch to steep
In tears which absent lovers weep;
Or if she gain'd a troubled sleep,
Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme
And terror of her feverish dream.

XIV.

Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire
Upon each other bent their ire:
"A woodsman thou, and hast a spear,
And couldst thou such an insult bear?"
Sullen he said, "A man contends
With men-a witch with sprites and fiends;
Not to mere mortal wight belong
Yon gloomy brow and frame so strong:
But thou-is this thy promise fair,
That your lord William, wealthy heir
To Ulrick, baron of Witton-le-wear,
Should Metelill to altar bear?
Do all the spell's thou boast'st as thine
Serve but to slay some peasant's kine,
His grain in autumn's storms to steep,
Or thorough fog and fen to sweep,
And hag-ride some poor rustic's sleep?
Is such mean mischief worth the fame
Of sorceress and witch's name?

Fame, which with all men's wish conspires,
With thy deserts and my desires,
To damn thy corpse to penal fires?
Out on thee, witch! aroint! aroint!
What now shall put thy schemes in joint?
What save this trusty arrow's point,
From the dark dingle when it flies,
And he who meets it gasps and dies."

XV.

Stern she replied, "I wiH not wage
War with thy folly or thy rage;
But ere the morrow's sun be low,
Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt know,
If I can venge me on a foe.
Believe the while, that whatsoe'er
1 spoke, in ire, of bow and spear,
It is not Harold's destiny

The death of pilfer'd deer to die.
But he, and thou, and yon pale moon,
That shall be yet more pallid soon,
Before she sink behind the dell,
Thou, she, and Harold too, shall tell
What Jutta knows of charm or spell."
Thus muttering, to the door she bent
Her wayward steps, and forth she went,
And left alone the moody sire,
To cherish or to slake his ire.
XVI.

Far faster than belonged to age,
Has Jutta made her pilgrimage.
A priest has met her as she pass'd,
And cross'd himself and stood aghast:
She traced a hamlet-not a cur

His throat would ope, his foot would stir;
By crouch, by trembling, and by groan,
They made her hated presence known!
But when she trode the sable fell,
Were wilder sounds her way to tell,-
For far was heard the fox's yell,
The black-cock waked and faintly crew,
Scream'd o'er the moss the scared curlew;
Where o'er the cataract the oak
Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak;
The mountain-cat, which sought his prey,
Glared, scream'd, and started from her way.
Such music cheer'd her journey lone
To the deep dell and rocking stoue:
There, with unhallow'd hymn of praise,
She call'd a god of heathen days.

XVII.

INVOCATION.

From thy Pomeranian throne,
Hewn in rock of living stone,
Where, to thy godhead faithful yet,
Bend Esthonian, Finn, and Lett,
And their swords in vengeance whet,
That shall make thine altars wet-
Wet and red for ages more
With the christians' hated gore,-
Hear me! sovereign of the rock,
Hear me mighty Zernebock.
Mightiest of the mighty known,
Here thy wonders have been shown:
Hundred tribes in various tongue
Oft have here thy praises sung;
Down that stone with runic seam'd,
Hundred victims' blood hath stream'd!
Now one woman comes alone,
And but wets it with her own,
The last, the feeblest of thy flock;-
Hear and be present, Zernebock!

Hark! he comes; the night-blast cold
Wilder sweeps along the wold;

The cloudless moon grows dark and dim,
And bristling hair and quaking limb
Proclaim the master demon nigh,-
Those who view his form shall die!

Lo! I stoop and veil my head.
Thou who rid'st the tempest dread,
Shaking hill and rending oak—
Spare me! spare me! Zernebock.

He comes not yet! Shall cold delay
Thy votaress at her need repay:
Thou shall I call thee god or fiend?-
Let others on thy mood attend
With prayer and ritual-Jutta's arms
Are necromantic words and charms;
Mine is the spell, that utter'd once,
Shall wake thy master from his trance,
Shake his red mansion-house of pain,
And burst his seven-times twisted chain.
So! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke?
I own thy presence, Zernebock.

XVIII.

"Daughter of dust," the deep voice said,
-Shook while it spoke the vale for dread;
Rock'd on the base that massive stone,
The evil deity to own,-

"Daughter of dust! not mine the power
Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour.
'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife
Waged for his soul and for his life,
And fain would we the combat win,
And snatch him in his hour of sin.
There is a star now rising red,

That threats him with an influence dread:
Woman, thine arts of malice whet,
To use the space before it set.

Involve him with the church in strife,
Push on adventurous chance his life;
Ourself will in the hour of need,
As best we may, thy counsels speed."
So ceased the voice; for seven leagues round
Each hamlet started at the sound;
But slept again, as slowly died

Its thunders on the hill's brown side.

XIX.

"And is this all," said Jutta stern,

"That thou canst teach and I can learn?
Hence! to the land of fog and waste!
There fittest is thine influence placed,
Thou powerless sluggish deity!
But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee
Again before so poor a god."
She struck the altar with her rod;
Slight was the touch, as when at need
A damsel stirs her tardy steed;
But to the blow the stone gave place,
And, starting from its balanced base,
Roll'd thundering down the moon-light dell,
Re-echoed moorland, rock, and fell;
Into the moon-light tarn it dash'd,
Their shores the sounding surges lash'd,
And there was ripple, rage, and foam;
But on that lake, so dark and lone,
Placid and pale the moonbeam shone,
As Jutta hied her home.

CANTO III, I.

GRAY towers of Durham! there was once a time
1 view'd your battlements with such vague hope,
As brightens life in its first dawning prime;
Not that e'en then came within fancy's scope
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope;
Yet, gazing on the venerable hall,

Her flattering dreams would in perspective ope