XIII. What sees Count Harold in that bower, So late his resting-place? Adored by all his race! So flow'd his hoary beard; But when his voice he rear'd, Deep, without harshness, slow and strong, The powerful accents roll'd along, XIV. 'Harold,' he said, 'what rage is thine, To quit the worship of thy line, To leave thy Warrior-God? Are wither'd by a nod. Victory and vengeance; only I Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, XV. 'Tempter,' said Harold, firm of heart, I do defy thee, and resist The kindling frenzy of my breast, And God, or Demon, part in peace.' Could wash that blood-red mark away? Harold's brain, He clench'd his teeth in high disdain, And-for his power to hurt or kill Evanish'd in the storm. XVII. He placed her on a bank of moss, And tremors yet unknown across His stubborn sinews fly, The while with timid hand the dew Upon her brow and neck he threw, And mark'd how life with rosy hue On her pale cheek revived anew, And glimmer'd in her eye. Inly he said, 'That silken tress What blindness mine that could not guess! Or how could page's rugged dress That bosom's pride belie? O, dull of heart, through wild and wave In search of blood and death to rave, With such a partner nigh!' O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly, Speaks shame-facedness and hope. XIX. But vainly seems the Dane to seek For terms his new-born love to speak, For words, save those of wrath and wrong, Till now were strangers to his tongue; Heard none more soft, were all as true): That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed. END OF HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. IV. From stone to stone might safely trip, Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip That binds her slipper's silken rim. Or trust thy lover's strength: nor fear That this same stalwart arm of mine, And why does Lucy shun mine eye? How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh! Is it because that crimson draws Than the dull glance of common men, And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met The hues of pleasure and regret; Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow; Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice, Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part, A lyre, a falchion, and a heart? VI. Mysword-its master must be dumb; But, when a soldier names my name, Approach, my Lucy! fearless come, Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. My heart! 'mid all yon courtly crew, Yet shamed thine own is placed They praised thy diamonds' lustre Norwon-best meed to minstrel true One favouring smile from fair BucCLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone. VIII. But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame, Who bound no laurel round his living head, Should hang it o'er his monument when dead) For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand, And thread, like him, the maze of fairy land; Of golden battlements to view the gleam, Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, And slumber soft by some Elysian His blood it was fever'd, his breathing |