Peasants fled inward his fury to 'scape,
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape,
Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung,
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung,
« Bless us, St Mary, from flood and from fire,
From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's ire!»—
III.

He liked the wealth of fair England so well,
That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell.
He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour,
And disembark'd with his Danish power.
Three earls came against him with all their train,—
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain:
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand,
And he wasted and warr'd in Northumberland.
But the Saxon king was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought;

And the count took upon him the peaceable style,
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle.

IV.

Time will rust the sharpest sword,
Time will consume the strongest cord;
That which moulders hemp and steel,
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.

Of the Danish band, whom Count Witikind led,
Many wax'd aged, and many were dead;
Himself found his armour full weighty to bear,
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair;
He lean'd on a staff, when his step went abroad,
And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode;
As he grew feebler his wildness ceased,

He made himself peace with prelate and priest,
Made his peace, and, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said;
Saint Cuthbert's bishop was holy and grave,
Wise and good was the counsel he gave.

V.

<< Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd;
Priest didst thou slay, and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;

Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish rite,
Leave now the darkness, and wend into light:
O! while life and space are given,

Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!»
That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly gazed;

« Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne, My faith I will leave and I'll cleave unto thine.>>

VI.

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and on Wear,
To be held of the church by bridle and spear;
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale part,
To better his will, and to soften his heart:
Count Witikind was a joyful man,

Less for the faith than the lands that he wan.

The high church of Durham is dress'd for the day,
The clergy are rank'd in their solemn array;
There came the count, in a bear-skin warm,
Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm;

Ile kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine,
With patience unwonted at rites divine;
He abjured the gods of heathen race,
And he bent his head at the font of grace;
But such was the griesly old proselyte's look,
That the priest who baptized him grew pale and shook.
And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood,
« Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good!»-

VII.

Up then arose that grim convertite,
Homeward he hied him when ended the rite;
The prelate in honour will with him ride,
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side,
Banners and banderols danced in the wind,
Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind;
Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne;
And full in front did that fortress lour,

In darksome strength with its buttress and tower;
At the castle-gate was young Harold there,
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.

VIII.

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardihood,
His strength of frame, and his fury of mood;
Rude he was and wild to behold,
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,
Cap of vair, nor rich array,

Such as should grace that festal day:

His doublet of bull's hide was all unbraced,
Uncover'd his head, and his sandal unlaced :
His shaggy black locks on his brow hung low,
And his eyes glanced through them a swarthy glow:
A Danish club in his hand he bore,

The spikes were clotted with recent gore;

At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-cubs twain,

In the dangerous chase that morning slain.
Rude was the greeting to his father he made,
None to the bishop,-while thus he said:

IX.

« What priest-led hypocrite art thou,

With thy humbled look and thy monkish bros,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his vow?
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,

Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,

Who won his bride by the axe and sword;
From the shrine of St Peter the chalice who tore,
And melted to bracelets for Freya and Thor;
With one blow of his gauntlet who burst the skull,
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain Bull?
Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to war-gods belong.
With the deed of the brave, and the blow of the strong,
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk,

Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of hair,
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou bear'
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower
To batten with priest and with paramour?
O out upon thine endless shame!
Each scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,
And thy son will refuse thee a father's name!»-

¦ Bat reckoning to none of my actions I owe,

And least to my son such accounting will show.
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth,

Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason or ruth?
Hlence! to the wolf and the bear in her den;
These are thy mates, and not rational men,»-

XI.

Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied,

Ile heard the deep thunder, the plashing of rain,
He saw the red lightning through shot-hole and pane;
«And oh!» said the page, « on the shelterless wold
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and cold!
What though he was stubborn, and wayward, and wild,
He endured me because I was Ermengarde's child,
And often from dawn till the set of the sun,

In the chase, by his stirrup, unchidden I run:
I would I were older, and knighthood could bear,

For me, I am yet what thy lessons have made,

I was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a blade;

An infant, was taught to clap hands and to shout, From the roofs of the tower when the flame had broke

out;

la the blood of slain foemen my finger to dip,
And tinge with its purple my cheek and my lip.—
Tis thou know'st not truth, that has barter'd in eld,
For a price, the brave faith that thine ancestors held.
When this wolf»-and the carcase he flung on the
plain-

Shall awake and give food to her nurslings again,
The face of his father will Harold review;
Till then, aged heathen, young christian, adieu!»

XII.

Priest, monk, and prelate stood aghast,
As through the pageant the heathen pass'd.
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung,

Laid his hand on the pommel and into it sprung;
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan,
When the holy sign on the earth was thrown!
The fierce old count unsheathed his brand,
But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand;

Let him pass free!-Heaven knows its hour,-
Bat he must own repentance's power,
Pray and weep, and penance bear,

Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the Wear.»-
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father is gone
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son.

XIII.

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall,
Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all;
And e'en the good bishop was fain to endure

The scandal which time and instruction might cure:
It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first to restraiu,
In his wine and his wassail, a half-christen'd Dane.
The mead flow'd around, and the ale was drain'd dry,
Wild was the laughter, the song, and the cry;
With Kyrie Eleison came clamourously in
The war-songs of Danesman, Norweyan, and Finn,
Till man after man the contention gave o'er,
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the hall floor;

breath,

Bade me follow her nursling in life and to death.

XV.

<< It pours and it thunders, it lightens amain,
As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from his chain!
Accursed by the church, and expell'd by his sire,
Nor christian nor Dane give him shelter or fire,
And this tempest what mortal may houseless endure?
Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor!
Whate'er comes of Gunnar he tarries not here.>>
He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd to his spear,
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd by his tread,
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the dead:
Ungrateful and bestial!» his anger broke forth,

<< To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of the North!
And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have plenty in store,
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and ore.»>—
XVI.

Then heeding full little of ban or of curse,
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaulx's purse:
Saint Meneholt's abbot next morning has miss'd
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to the wrist :
The seneschal's keys from his belt he has ta'en
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hildebrand's brain).
To the stable-yard he made his way,
And mounted the bishop's palfrey gay,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast,
And right on his way to the moorland has pass'd.
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;

So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd,

There answer'd a steed that was bound beside,

And the red flash of lightning show'd there where lay His master, Lord Harold, outstretch'd on the clay.

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,

purpose and vow.

As he heard the harsh voice and beheld the dark brow,
And half he repented his
But now to draw back were bootless shame,
And he loved his master, so urged his claim:
<< Alas! if my arm and my courage be weak,
Bear with me a while for old Ermengarde's sake;
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith,

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 priests' 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 at 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 a 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 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 dale, 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.

Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old,

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

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 these lands and lordships still,
Heaven in its hour may change his will:
But if reft of gold, and of living bare,
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,

la 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;
Feard when she frown'd was her eye of flame,
More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd;
For then, '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 the rest, Let none his empire share.

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,
Hle fain-but must not have his will,-
Would kiss the beads of Metelill.

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,
'Tis 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.

XL.

« All peace be here-What! none replies? Dismiss your fears and your surprise. 'Tis 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.a-
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 liarold 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
Till 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.

XIII.

Appall'd awhile the parents stood,

Then changed their fear to angry mood, And foremost fell their words of ill

On unresisting Metelill:

Was she not caution'd and forbid,
Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and chid,
And must she still to green-wood roam,
To marshal such misfortune home?
Hence, minion-to thy chamber hence,
There prudence learn and penitence.»
She went-her lonely couch to steep
In tears which absent lovers weep;
Or if she gain'd a troubled sleep,
Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme
And terror of her feverish dream.