"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 belie?

O, dull of heart, through wild and wave,
In search of blood and death to rave,
With such a partner nigh!"1

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,

[Mr. Adolphus, in his Letters on the Author of Waverley p. 230, remarks on the coincidence between "the catastophe of The Black Dwarf,' the recognition of Mortham's lost son in the Irish orphan of 'Rokeby,' and the conversion of Harold's page into a female,"-all which he calls "specimens of unsuccessful contrivance, at a great expense of probability."]

Affection's opening dawn to spy;
And the deep blush, which bids its dye
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom 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."

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid? And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow? No need to turn the page, as if 'twere lead, Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow. Be cheer'd-'tis ended-and I will not borrow, To try thy patience more, one anecdote From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note.1

1["Harold the Dauntless,' like 'The Bridal of Triermain,' is a tolerably successful imitation of some parts of the style of Mr. Walter Scott; but, like all imitations, it is clearly distinguishable from the prototype; it wants the life and seasoning of originality. To illustrate this familiarly from the stage: We have all witnessed a hundred imitations of popular actors-of Kemble, for instance, in which the voice, the gesture, and somewhat even of the look, were copied. In externals the resemblance might be sufficiently correct; but where was the informing soul, the mind that dictated the

action and expression? Who could endure the tedium of seeing the imitator go through a whole character? In Harold the Dauntless,' the imitation of Mr. Scott is pretty obvious, but we are weary of it before we arrive near the end. The author has talent, and considerable facility in versification, and on this account it is somewhat lamentable, not only that he should not have selected a better model, but that he should copy the parts of that model which are least worthy of study. Perhaps it was not easy to equal the energy of Mr. Scott's line, or his picturesque descriptions. His pecu liarities and defects were more attainable, and with these the writer of this novel in verse has generally contented himself; he will also content a certain number of readers, who merely look for a few amusing or surprising incidents. In these, however, 'Harold the Dauntless' does not abound so much as The Bridal of Triermain.' They are indeed romantic enough to satisfy all the parlour-boarders of ladies' schools in England; but they want that appearance of probability which should give them interest." Critical Review, April, 1817.

"We had formerly occasion to notice, with considerable praise, The Bridal of Triermain. We remarked it as a pretty close imitation of Mr. Scott's poetry; and as that great master seems for the present to have left his lyre unstrung, a substitute, even of inferior value, may be welcomed by the public. It appears to us, however, and still does, that the merit of the present author consists rather in the soft and wildly tender passages, than in those rougher scenes of feud and fray, through which the poet of early times conducts his reader. His war-horse follows with somewhat of a hobbling pace, the proud and impetuous courser whom he seeks to rival. Unfortunately, as it appears to us, the last style of poetical excellence is rather more aimed at here than in the former poem; and as we do not discover any improvement in the mode of treating it, Harold the Dauntless scarcely appears to us to equal the Bridal of Triermain. It contains, VOL. VIII.

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