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.

CANTO III.

I.

GRAY towers of Durham! there was once a time
I 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
Some reverend room, some prebendary's stall,-
And thus Hope me deceived as she deceiveth all.

Well yet I love thy mix'd and massive piles,

Half church of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot,
And long to roam these venerable aisles,

With records stored of deeds long since forgot:
There might I share my Surtees' happier lot,
Who leaves at will his patrimonial field

To ransack every crypt and hallow'd spot;

And from oblivion rend the spoils they yield, Restoring priestly chaunt, and clang of knightly shield.

Vain is the wish-since other cares demand

Each vacant hour, and in another clime;
But still that northern harp invites my hand,
Which tells the wonder of thine earlier time;
And fain its numbers would I now command,
To paint the beauties of thy dawning fair,
When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand

Upon the western heights of Beaurepaire,
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by winding Wear.

II.

Fair on the half-seen streams the sun-beams danced, Betraying it beneath the woodland bank,

And fair between the Gothic turrets glanced

Broad lights, and shadows fell on front and flank,

Where tower and buttress rose in martial rank,
And girdled in the massive donjon keep,
And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush and bank
The matin bell with summons long and deep,
And echo answer'd still with long-resounding sweep.

III.

The morning mists rose from the ground, Each merry bird awaken'd round

As if in revelry;

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 doffd 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 Gunnar took, young 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
step
advances or withdraws:
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;

Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear,
They roused like lions from their lair,
Then rush'd in emulation forth
To enhance the glories of the north
Proud Erick, mightiest of thy race,
Where is thy shadowy resting-place?
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaffd
From foeman's skull metheglin draught,
Or wander'st where thy cairn was piled,
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild?
Or have the milder christians given
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven?
Where'er thou art, to thee are known
Our toils endured, our trophies won,
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes.»>—
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose.

VI. SONG.

«Hawk and osprey scream'd for joy,
O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy,
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread, "
The heath was dyed with darker red,
When o'er Erick, Inguar's son,
Dane and Northman piled the stone;
Singing wild the war-song stern,
Rest thee, dweller of the cairn!

« Where eddying currents foam and boil

By Bersa's burgh and Græmsay's isle,
The seaman sees a martial form
Half mingled with the mist and storm.
In anxious awe he bears away
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay,

And murmurs from the bounding stern, 'Rest thee, dweller of the cairn!'

<< What cares disturb the mighty dead?
Each honour'd rite was duly paid;
No daring hand thy helm unlaced,

Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee placed,
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned,
Without, with hostile blood 't was stain'd;
Within, 't was lined with moss and feru,-
Then rest thee, dweller of the cairn!

« He may not rest. from realms afar
Comes voice of battle and of war,
Of conquest wrought with bloody hand
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand,
When Odin's warlike son could daunt
The turban'd race of Termagaunt——»

VII.

« Peace!» said the knight; « the noble scald Our warlike fathers' deeds recall'd, But never strove to soothe the son

With tales of what himself had done.

At Odin's board the bard sits high
Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery;
But highest he whose daring lay
Hlath dared unwelcome truths to say.»-
With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed
His master's looks, and nought replicd-
But well that smile his master led
To construe what he left unsaid.

« Is it to me, thou timid youth,
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth?
My soul no more thy censure grieves
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves.
Say on-and yet-beware the rude
And wild distemper of my blood;
Loth were I that mine ire should wrong
The youth that bore my shield so long,
And who, in service constant still,
Though weak in frame, art strong in will.>>
«Oh!» quoth the page, « even there depends
My counsel there my warning tends.
Oft seems as of my master's breast
Some demon were the sudden guest;
Then at the first misconstrued word
His hand is on the mace and sword,
From her firm seat his wisdom driven,
His life to countless dangers given.-
O! would that Gunnar could suffice
To be the fiend's last sacrifice,
So that, when glutted with my gore,
He fled and tempted thee no more!
VIII.

Then waved his hand, and shook his head,
The impatient Dane, while thus he said:

<< Profane not, youth—it is not thine
To judge the spirit of our line-

The bold Berserkar's rage divine,
Through whose inspiring, deeds are wrought
Past human strength and human thought.
When full upon his gloomy soul

The champion feels the influence roll,
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall-
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall-
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes,
Singly against a host of foes;

Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds,
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds;

One 'gainst a hundred will he strive,
Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
Then rush the eagles to his
cry

Of slaughter and of victory,—

And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl,

Deep drinks his sword,-deep drinks his soul;
And all that meet him in his ire

He gives to ruin, rout, and fire,

Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
And couches till he's man agen.—
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb,
When 'gins that rage to over-brim-
Thou know'st when I am moved, and why;
And when thou seest me roll mine eye,
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute;
But else, speak boldly out whate'er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour;—
So, christian monks are wont to say,
Demons of old were charm'd away;-
Then fear not I will rashly deem
Ill of thy speech, whate'er the theme.»>

IX.

As down some strait in doubt and dread The watchful pilot drops the lead,

And form as fair as Denmark's pine, Who loves with purple heath to twine

Her locks of sunny glow;

And sweetly blends that shade of gold With the cheek's rosy hue,

And faith might for her mirror hold That eye of matchless blue.

4.

"Tis hers the manly sports to love
That southern maidens fear,
To bend the bow by stream and grove,
And lift the hunter's spear.
She can her chosen champion's fight
With eye undazzled see,

Clasp him victorious from the strife,
Or on his corpse yield up her life,-
A Danish maid for me!»>

XI.

Then smiled the Dane-« Thou canst so well

The virtues of our maidens tell,

Half could I wish my choice had been

Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen,

And lofty soul, yet what of ill

Hast thou to charge on Metelill?»--

<< On herself nought,» young Gunnar said,
« But her base sire's ignoble trade.
Her mother, too-the general fame
Hath given to Jutta evil name,

And in her gray eye is a flame

Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame.-
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honour'd footsteps sought,
And twice return'd with such ill rede

As sent thee on some desperate deed.»>

«

XII.

Thou errest; Jutta wisely said, He that comes suitor to a maid, Ere link'd in marriage, should provide Lands and a dwelling for his brideMy father's by the Tyne and Wear I have reclaim'd.»-«O, all too dear, And all too dangerous the prize, E'en were it won,» young Gunnar cries. «And then this Jutta's fresh device, That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane, From Durham's priests a boon to gain, When thou hast left their vassals slain In their own halls!»-Flash'd Harold's eye, Thunder'd his voice-« False page, you lie! The castle, hall and tower, is mine, Built by old Witikind on Tyne. The wild-cat will defend his den, Fights for her nest the timid wren; And think'st thou I'll forego my right For dread of monk or monkish knight?Up and away, that deepening bell Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell. Thither will I, in manner due, As Jutta bade, my claim to sue; And, if to right me they are loth, Then woe to church and chapter both!».

Now shift the scene, and let the curtain fall, And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's hall.

CANTO IV.

FULL many a bard hath sung the solemn gloom,
Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribb'd roof,
O'er canopying shrine, and gorgeous tomb,

Carved screen, and altar glimmering far aloof,
And blending with the shade-a matchless proof
Of high devotion, which hath now wax'd cold;
Yet legends say, that luxury's brute hoof

Intruded oft within such sacred fold,

Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in his fane of old.

Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when the route
Of our rude neighbours whilome deign'd to come,
Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep out

And cleanse our chancel from the rage of Rome,
They spoke not on our ancient fane the doom

To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their own, But spared the martyr'd saint and storied tomb, Though papal miracles had graced the stone, And though the aisles still loved the organ's swelling

tone.

And deem not, though 't is now my part to paint
A prelate sway'd by love of power and gold,
That all who wore the mitre of our saint
Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold;
Since both in modern times and days of old
It sate on those whose virtues might atone

Their predecessors' frailties trebly told:

Matthew and Morton we as such may own

rington.

II.

But now to earlier and to ruder times,
As subject meet, I tune my rugged rhymes,
Telling how fairly the chapter was met,
And rood and books in seemly order set;
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the hand
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd,
Now on fair carved desk display'd,
"T was theirs the solemn scene to aid.
O'er-head with many a scutcheon graced,
And quaint devices interlaced,
A labyrinth of crossing rows,
The roof in lessening arches shows;
Beneath its shade placed proud and high,
With footstool and with canopy,
Sate Aldingar, and prelate ne'er
More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's chair.
Canons and deacons were placed below,
In due degree and lengthen'd row.
Unmoved and silent each sate there,
Like image, in his oaken chair;

Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd,
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard,
And of their eyes severe alone
The twinkle show'd they were not stone.

III.

The prelate was to speech address'd,
Each head sunk reverent on each breast;

Loud laugh'd the stern pagan-« They're free from the care

Of fief and of service, both Conyers and Vere,-
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need,

A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead.

Ho, Gunnar!-the tokens !»-and, sever'd anew,

A head and a hand on the altar he threw.
Then shudder'd with terror both canon and monk,
They knew the glazed eye and the countenance shrunk,
And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled hair,
And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic Vere.
There was not a churchman or priest that was there,
But grew pale at the sight, and betook him to prayer.
VI..

Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of fear:

<< Was this the hand should your banner bear?
Was that the head should wear the casque

In battle at the church's task?
Was it to such you gave the place
Of Harold with the heavy mace?
Find me between the Wear and Tyne
A knight will wield this club of mine,--
Give him my fiefs, and I will say
There's wit beneath the cowl of gray.»
He raised it, rough with many a stain,
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting brain;