XV. And is this my probation?" wild Harold he said, "Within a lone castle to press a lone bed?Good even, my Lord Bishop,-Saint Cuthbert to borrow, [row." The Castle of Seven Shields receives me to-mor Harold the Dauntless. CANTO FIFTH. I. DENMARK'S sage courtier to her princely youth, Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale,' Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial truth; For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil. The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning pale, Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver haze, Are but the ground-work of the rich detail Which Fantsay with pencil wild portrays, Blending what seems and is, in the wrapt muser's gaze. Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and stone From bursting sunbeam, or from flashing levin, II. Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to prove, Hugh Meneville, the adventure of thy lay; Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and love, Ever companion of his master's way. Midward their path, a rock of granite gray From the adjoining cliff had made descent,A barren mass-yet with her drooping spray Had a young birch-tree crown'd its battlement, Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, flaw and rent. This rock and tree could Gunnar's thought engage Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to his eye, 1"Hamlet. Do you see yonder cloud, that's almost in shape of a camel? Polonius. By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed! And at his master ask'd the timid Page, "What is the emblem that a bard shou'd spy In that rude rock and its green canopy?" And Harold said, "Like to the helmet brave Of warrior slain in fight it seems to lie, And these same drooping boughs do o'er it wave Not all unlike the plume his lady's favor gave." "Ah, no!" replied the Page; "the ill-starr'd love Of some poor maid is in the emblem shown, 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 those 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," Yet prating still of love; With one like me to rove, IV. The grateful Page made no reply, And, as they flow'd along, V. "What though through fields of carnage wide Pol. It is backed like a weasel. Ham. Or, like a whale? Pol. Very like a whale." Hamlet When slumbering by Lord Harold's side In forest, field, or lea."— VI. "Break off!" said Harold, in a tone Where hurry and surprise were shown, With some slight touch of fear,— By cowl, and staff, and mantle known, Dost see him, youth?-Thou couldst not see 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 And there is naught to see, Save that the oak's scathed boughs fling down Waves with the waving tree." VII. Count Harold gazed upon the oak "Be what it will yon phantom gray- Count Harold turn'd dismay'd: I will subdue it !"-Forth he strode, His arms, said, "Speak-I hear." VIII. The Deep Voice said, "O wild of will, "I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape." "Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath. In this thine hour, yet turn and hear! For life is brief and judgment near." IX. Then ceased The Voice.-The Dane replied Or with its hardness taunt the rock,— I am as they-my Danish strain Sends streams of fire through every vein. Or Witikind's the Waster, known They left not black with flame?— He was my sire,-and, sprung of him, Can I be soft and tame? [me, Part hence, and with my crimes no more upbraid 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, Perchance it is part of his punishment still, Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and awake If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted soever, The gate of repentance shall ope for thee NEVER !" Hamlet. 'Know'st thou not me?' the Deep Voice cried." Waverley Novels-Antiquary, vol. v. p 145 There is naught on the path but the shade of the oak. He is gone, whose strange presence my feeling oppress'd, [breast. Like the night-hag that sits on the slumberer's 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. [has power, For the first time Count Harold owns leech-craft Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a flower!" The page gave the flasket, which Walwayn had fill'd [distill'd With the juice of wild roots that his art had So baneful their influence on all that had breath, One drop had been phrensy, and two had been death. Harold took it, but drank not; for jubilee shrill, And music and clamor were heard on the hill, And down the steep pathway, o'er stock and o'er stone, The train of a bridal came blithesomely on; There was song, there was pipe, there was timbrel, and still The burden was, "Joy to the fair Metelill!" XII. Harold might see from his high stance, With mirth and melody ;— 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, And pleased revenge and malice high The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his bride, And the pleased witch made answer, “Then 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. Such was their various mood of glee XV. Backward they bore;-yet are there two No pause of dread Lord William knew Is to its reckoning gone; And naught of Wulfstane rests behind, XVI. As from the bosom of the sky The eagle darts amain, As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly, As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might But dares the fight in vain, So fought the bridegroom; from his hand Now, Heaven! take noble William's part, The hapless bridegroom's slain ! XVII. Count Harold's phrensied rage is high, And cried, "In mercy spare! Grant mercy, or despair!" "O mark thee with the blessed rood," He sign'd the cross divine Instant his eye hath human light, Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright; But though his dreaded footsteps part, Ere pouring it for those she loves- The screech-owl from the thicket broke, So fearful was the sound and stern, The fox and famish'd wolf replied The sorceress on the ground lay dead. ΧΙΧ. Such was the scene of blood and woes, Ere, bright and fair, upon his road 1 See a note on the Lord of the Isles, Canto v. st. 31, p. 454 ante. |