XIII Loud revell'd the guests, and the goblets loud rang, But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, sang; And Harold, the hurry and pride of whose soul, E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's control, Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye, . And often untasted the goblet pass'd by; Than wine, or than wassail, to him was more dear The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to hear; And the bishop that day might of Vinsauf complain That his art had but wasted his wine-casks in vain. Well chanced it that Adolf, the night when he wed, Had confess'd and had sain'd him ere boune to his bed; He sprung from his couch, and his broad-sword he drew, And there the seven daughters of Urien he slew. The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd, Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stow'd, But manhood grows faint as the world waxes old! The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with the rye, XV. «And is this my probation?» wild Harold he said, « Within a lone castle to press a lone bed?Good even, my Lord Bishop,-St Cuthbert to borrow, The Castle of Seven Shields receives me to-morrow.» CANTO V. I. DENMARK'S sage courtier to her princely youth, Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver haze, Are but the ground-work of the rich detail Which Phantasy with pencil wild portrays, Blending what seems and is, in the rapt muser's Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and stone gaze. Caught from the varying surge, or vacant heaven, From bursting sun-beam, or from flashing levin, She limns her pictures-on the earth, as air, Arise her castles, and her car is driven; And never gazed the eye on scene so fair, But of its boasted charms fancy gave half the share. 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, 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 favour 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,>> Even so amid the clash of war With one like me to rove, Whose business and whose joys are found Upon the bloody battle-ground. Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, And thou and I will never part;Harold would wrap the world in flame Ere injury on Gunnar came.»> << Break off, we are not here alone; Now mark him, Gunnar, heed fully; 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 nought to see, Save that the oak's scathed boughs fling dowr VII. Count Harold gazed upon the oak « Be what it will, you phantom gray, I will subdue it!»-Forth he strode, And, folding on his bosom broad His arms, said, « Speak-I hear.>> VIII. The deep voice said, «O wild of will, They left not black with flame ?- Can I be soft and tame? Part hence, and with my crimes no more upbraid me I am that Waster's son, and am but what he made me.>> X. The phantom groan'd;-the mountain shook around, « All thou hast said is truth-Yet on the head Churches and towns he gave to sword and fire; Yes-all these things he did-he did, but he EPENTED! But thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall next shake thee, Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and awake thee! XI. << He is gone,» said Lord Harold, and gazed as he spoke; power, Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a flower!»>— 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, Himself unseen, that train advance With mirth and melody;On horse and foot a mingled throng, Measuring their steps to bridal song 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, Joy takes the colours of the mind. Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd, He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast; More feebly strove with maiden fear, Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows Like dew-drop on the budding rose; While Wulfstane's gloomy sinile declared The joy that selfish avarice shared, And pleased revenge and malice high Its semblance took in Jutta's eye. On dangerous adventure sped, The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, For thus that morn her demon said :«< If, ere the set of sun, be tied The knot twixt bridegroom and his bride, The Dane shall have no power of ill O'er William and o'er Metelill.» And the pleased witch made answer, « Then Must Harold have pass'd from the paths of men! Evil repose may his spirit have,May hemlock and mandrake find root in his grave,— May his death-sleep be dogg'd by dreams of dismay, And his waking be worse at the answering day!»>— XIV. Such was their various mood of glee Blent in one shout of ecstasy. But still when joy is brimming highest, Of sorrow and misfortune nighest, Of terror with her ague cheek, And lurking danger, sages speak :These haunt each path, but chief they lay Their snares beside the primrose way.Thus found that bridal band their path Beset by Harold in his wrath. Trembling beneath his maddening mood, High on a rock the giant stood; His shout was like the doom of death Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd beneath. His destined victims might not spy The reddening terrors of his eye,— The frown of rage that writhed his face, The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase;But all could see-and, secing, all Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall,The fragment which their giant foe Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw. And human face, and human frame, That lived, and moved, and had free will To chuse the path of good or ill, Is to its reckoning gone; And nought of Wulfstane rests behind, A red and shapeless mass there lay, XVI. As from the bosom of the sky The eagle daris amain, Three bounds from yonder summit high As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly, But dares the fight in vain, So fought the bridegroom; from his hand Now, Heaven! take noble William's part, The haplsss bridegroom's slain ! XVII. Count Harold's frenzied rage is high, To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung, And cried, «< In mercy spare! Grant mercy, or despair!» « O mark thee with the blessed rood,» The page implored; « Speak word of good, Resist the fiend, or be subdued!»- eye He sign'd the cross divineInstant his hath human light, Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright; His brow relax'd the obdurate frown, The fatal mace sinks gently down, He turns and strides away; Yet oft, like revellers who leave Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve, As if repenting the reprieve He granted to his prey. Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he given, heaven. XVIII. But though his dreaded footsteps part, Ere pouring it for those she loves- Each bird of evil omen woke, The raven gave his fatal croak,' But rather chuse the theory less civil Of boors, who, origin of things forgot, Refer still to the origin of evil, And for their master-mason chuse that master-fiend the Devil. II. Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built towers That stout Count Harold bent his wondering gaze, When evening dew was on the heather flowers, And the last sun-beams bade the mountain blaze, And tinged the battlements of other days With a bright level light ere sinking down.Illumined thus, the dauntless Dane surveys The Seven proud Shields that o'er the portal frown, And on their blazons traced high marks of old renown. A wolf North Wales had on his armour-coat, And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag; A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag; Surmounted by a cross-such signs were borne Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn. III. These scann'd, Count Harold sought the castle-door, While Superstition, who forbade to war Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd the onward way. Vain now those spells-for soon with heavy clank Of antique shields the wind of evening rush'd With sound most like a groan, and then was hush'd. Is none who on such spot such sounds could hear But to his heart the blood had faster rush'd, Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb was dearIt spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch of fear. IV. Yet Harold and his page no signs have traced Within the castle that of danger show'd; For still the halls and courts were wild and waste, As through their precincts the adventurers strode. The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, and broad, Each tower presenting to their scrutiny A hall in which a king might make abode, And fast beside, garnish'd both proud and high, Was placed a bower for rest in which a king might lie. As if a bridal there of late had been, Deck'd stood the table in each gorgeous hall; And yet it was two hundred years, I ween, Since date of that unhallow'd festival. Flagons, and ewers, and standing cups, were all Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, With throne begilt, and canopy of pall, And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments sear, Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich woof appear. V. In every bower, as round a hearse, was hung While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst them thrown, The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust bestrown. For these were they who, drunken with delight, VI. But where the work of vengeance had been done, In that seventh chamber was a sterner sight; There of the witch-brides lay each skeleton, Still in the posture as to death when dight. For this lay prone, by one blow slain outright; And that, as one who struggled long in dying; One bony hand held knife as if to smite; One bent on fleshless knees as mercy crying; One lay across the door, as kill'd in act of flying. The stern Dane smiled this charnel-house to see,- Been here avenged.-The origin of ill Through woman rose, the christian doctrine saith; Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel skill Can show example where a woman's breath Hath made a true-love vow, and, tempted, kept her faith.>> VII. The minstrel boy half smiled, half sigh'd, (Our scalds have said in dying hour |