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;
Bat 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.

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.
'T wixt 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;

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

Half church of God, half eastle '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,

Now Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by winding Wear.

II.

kur on the half-seen streams the sun-beams danced, raying it beneath the woodland bank, ·

A air between the Gothic turrets glanced

road lights, and shadows fell on frout 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 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 browWhoever 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 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 Balf 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 fern,-
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
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say.»-
With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed
His master's looks, and nought replied-
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 Jay 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 doth, 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.

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

And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd as his dute, Have lapsed to the church, and been granted anew To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,

For the service St Cuthbert's bless'd banner to hear, When the bands of the North come to foray the Wear.

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 lengthien'd row.
Inmoved 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;

blame,

But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye came.»>

V.

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 shruak,
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, aud 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;