Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry
When thou hast seen a sparrow die?
And canst 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,

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 abhorred 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.

<< Harold is tameless, and furious, and bold; Ever renown blows a note of fame,

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 priest's 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.>>

'T were 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 deadly flame

That ne'er from mortal courage came.

Those limbs 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;

That stubborn frame, that sullen mood,

Men deem'd must come of aught but good;

And they whisper'd, the great Master Fiend was as 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 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 crosier he loved to extend

O'er whatever would break or whatever would bend :
And now hath he clothed him in cope and in pall,

And a note of fear, when she sounds his name:
Much of bloodshed and much of scath
Have been their lot who have waked his wrath.
Leave him those lands and lordships still,
Heaven in its hour may change his will:
But if reft of gold, and of living baré,

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 given their doom,

That the church should the lands of Saint Cuthbert re

sume.

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

CANTO II.

I.

'Tis merry in green-wood,-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 drest,

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.

Less merry, perchance, is the fading leaf
That follows so soon on the gather'd sheaf,
When the green-wood loses the name;
Silent is then the forest bound,

Save the redbreast's note, and the rustling sound
Of frost-nipt leaves that are dropping round,
Or the deep-mouth'd cry of the distant hound
That opens on his game;

Yet then, too, I love the forest wide,
Whether the sun in splendour ride,
And gild its many-colour'd side,

Or whether the soft and silvery haze,
In vapoury folds, o'er the landscape strays,
And half involves the woodland maze,

Like an early widow's veil,
Where wimpling tissue from the gaze
The form half hides and half betrays,
Of beauty wan and pale.

III.

Fair Metelill was a woodland maid,
Her father a rover of green-wood shade,
By forest statutes undismay'd,

Who lived by bow and quiver.
Well known was Wulfstane's archery,
By merry Tyne both on moor and lea,
Through wooded Weardale's glens so free,
Well beside Stanhope's wild-wood tree,
And well on Ganlesse river.

Yet free though he trespass'd on woodland game,
More known and more fear'd was the wizard fame
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the outlaw's dame;
Fear'd when she frown'd was her

eye
of flame,
More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd;
For theu, 't was said, more fatal true
To its dread aim her spell-glance flew,
Than when from Wulfstane's bended
yew
Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft.

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;—

Yet could that heart so simple prove
The early dawn of stealing love:

Ah! gentle maid, beware!
The power who, now so mild a guest,
Gives dangerous yet delicious zest
To the calm pleasures of thy breast,
Will soon, a tyrant o'er thy rest,
Let none his empire share.

V.

One morn, in kirtle green array'd, Deep in the wood the maiden stray'd, And, where a fountain sprung,

She sat her down, unseen, to thread The scarlet berry's mimic braid,

And while her beads she strung, Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay Gives a good-morrow to the day, So lightsomely she sung:

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 out-wore
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 not-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 comest to chide mine accents bold,
My mother, Jutta, knows the spell,
At noon and midnight pleasing well
The disembodied ear;

Oh! let her powerful charms atone

For aught my rashness may have done,

And cease thy grasp of fear.»

Then laugh'd the knight,—his laughter's sound Half in the hollow helmet drown'd;

His barred visor then he raised,

And steady on the maiden gazed.

He smooth'd his brows, as best he might,

To the dread calm of autumn night,

When sinks the tempest's roar;
Yet still the cautious fishers eye
The clouds, and fear the gloomy sky,
And haul their barks on shore.

IX.

<< Damsel,» he said, « be wise, and learn Matters of weight and deep concern:

From distant realms I come,

And, wanderer long, at length have plann'd
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,
'T is 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 leveret '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 Wulfstane 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. 'T is I-that maid hath told my tale, Or, trembler, did thy courage fail?

It recks not-it is I demand

Fair Metelill in marriage band;
Harold the Dauntless I, whose name

Is brave men's boast and caitiffs' 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.

XII.

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
Til! morn, their lodge's honour'd 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.

To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-wear,
Should Metelill to altar bear?
Do all the spells thou boast'st as thine
Serve but to slay some peasant's kine,
His grain in autumn-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 will 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
I 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 belong'd to age,

Has Jutta made her pilgrimage.
A priest has met her as she pass'd,
And cross'd himself and stocd 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-stone:
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 ridest 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! comest 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-echo'd 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 moon-beam shone,
As Jutta hied her home.

Afar the bugles' clanging sound
Call'd to the chase the lagging hound,

The gale breath'd soft and free,
And seem'd to linger on its way,
To catch fresh odours from the spray,
And waved it in its wanton play

So light and gamesomely.

The scenes which morning beams reveal,
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel,

In all their fragrance round him steal.
It melted Harold's heart of steel,

And, hardly wotting why,

He doff'd his helmet's gloomy pride,
And hung it on a tree beside,

Laid mace and falchion by,

And on the green-sward sate him down,
And from his dark habitual frown
Relax'd his rugged brow-
Whoever hath the doubtful task
From that stern Dane a boon to ask,
Were wise to ask it now.

IV.

His place beside young Gunnar took,
And mark'd his master's softening look,
And in his eye's dark mirror spied
The gloom of stormy thought subside,
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide

To speak a warning word.
So when the torrent's billows shrink,
The timid pilgrim on the brink
Waits long to see them wave and sink,
Ere he dare brave the ford;
And often, after doubtful pause,
His
advances or withdraws :
step
Fearful to move the slumbering ire
Of his stern lord, thus stood the squire,
Till Harold raised his eye,

That glanced as when athwart the shroud
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud

The bursting sun-beams fly.

V.

<< Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde,
Offspring of prophetess and bard!
Take harp, and greet this lovely prime
With some high strain of Runic rhyme,
Strong, deep, and powerful! Peal it round
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound,
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay
Of bird and bugle hail the day.

Such was my grandsire Erick's sport,
When dawn gleam'd on his martial court.
Heymar the scald, with harp's high sound,
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around;