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 chant, 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.

As if in revelry;

Afar the bugles' clanging sound
Call'd to the chase the lagging hound;
The gale breathed soft and free,
And seem'd to linger on its way,
To cateh 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 bath 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,
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud
That glanced as when athwart the shroud

The bursting sunbeams 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 quaff'd
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 honoured 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 'twas stained;
Within, 'twas 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 sooth 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!"

66
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 mov'd, 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, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,
The page his master's brow observed,
Pausing at intervals to fling

His hand on the melodious string,
And to his moody breast apply
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song conveyed the rest:

1.

"Ill fares the bark with tackle riven,
And ill when on the breakers driven,
Ill when the storm-sprite shrieks in air,
And the scared mermaid tears her hair;
But worse when on her helm the hand
Of some false traitor holds command.
2.

"Ill fares the fainting palmer, placed
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rama's waste,
Ill when the scorching sun is high,
And the expected font is dry,
Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath,
The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death.

3.

"Ill fares the knight with buckler cleft,
And ill when of his helm bereft,

Ill when his steed to earth is flung,
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung;
But worse, if instant ruin token,
When he lists rede by woman spoken."
X.

"How now, fond boy?-Canst thou think ill,”
Said Harold, "of fair Metelill?"
"She may be fair," the page replied,

As through the strings he rang'd, "She may be fair; but yet," he cried, And then the strain he changed.

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!"

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."
XI.

"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 bride-
My 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 l'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 1, in manner due,
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue;
And, if to right me they are loth,
Then wo 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. I.

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 bending 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 pleas'd 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 swel ling tone.

And deem not, though 'tis 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 1 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 such (if fame speak truth) the honoured Barrington.

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,
'Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid.
O'erhead 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 reverend on each breast:
But ere his voice was heard-without
Arose a wild tumultuous shout,
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear,
Such as in crowded streets we hear,
Hailing the flames, that, bursting out,
Attract yet scarce the rabble rout.
Ere it had ceas'd a giant hand
Shook oaken door and iron band,
Till oak and iron both gave way,
Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray,
And ere upon angel or saint they can call,
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of the hall.

Then Aldingar roused him and answer'd again: "Thou suest for a boon which thou canst not obtain;

The church hath no fiefs for an unchristen'd Dane. Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath given, That the priests of a chantry might hymn him to heaven:

And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd as his due,

Have lapsed to the church, and been granted anew To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,

For the service saint Cuthbert's bless'd banner to bear,

When the bands of the north come to foray the Wear.

Then disturb not our conclave with wrangling or blame,

But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye

Loud laughed 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 corselet 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 scull and spouting brain;
He wheel'd it that it shrilly sung,
And the aisles echoed as it swung,
Then dash'd it down with sheer descent,
And split king Osric's monument.
"How like ye this music? How trow ye the hand
That can wield such a mace may be reft of its land?
No answer?-I spare ye a space to agree,
And saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if he be.
Ten strides through your chancel, ten strokes on
your bell,

And again I am with you-grave fathers, farewell."
VII.

He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd the oak

door,

And the clang of his stride died away on the floor; And his head from his bosom the prelate uprears

Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and in bone, The language, the look, and the laugh were his

own.

In the bounds of saint Cuthbert there is not a knight

Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin in fight.
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply,
'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to deny."
VIII.

On ven'son and malmsie that morning had fed
The cellarer Vinsauf, 'twas thus that he said:
Delay till to-morrow the chapter's reply;
Let the feast be spread fair, and the wine be pour'd
high:

If he's mortal he drinks,-if he drinks, he is ours-
His bracelets of iron,- his bed in our towers."
This man had a laughing eye,

Trust not, friends, when such you spy;
A beaker's depth he well could drain,
Revel, sport, and jest amain-

The haunch of the deer and the grape's bright dye

Never bard loved them better than I;
But sooner than Vinsauf filled me my wine,
Pass'd me his jest, and laughed at mine,
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of Bordeaux
the wine,

On an oaten cake and a draught of the Tyne.
With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine

IX.

Walwayn the leech spoke next-he knew
Each plant that loves the sun and dew,
Dominion o'er the blood and brain;
But special those whose juice can gain

The peasant who saw him by pale moonbeam
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream,
Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread
Were those of wanderer from the dead.
"Vinsauf, thy wine," he said, "hath power,
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower;
Yet three drops from this flask of mine,
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine,
Shall give him prison under ground
More dark, more narrow, more profound.
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have—
A dog's death and a heathen's grave."
I have lain on a sick man's bed,
Watching for hours for the leech's tread,
As if I deem'd that his presence alone
Were of power to bid my pain begone;
I have listed his words of comfort given,
As if to oracles from heaven;

I have counted his steps from my chamber door,
And bless'd them when they were heard no more,
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch should
nigh,

My choice were by leech-craft unaided to die.
X.

"Such service done in fervent zeal
The church may pardon and conceal,"
The doubtful prelate said, "but ne'er
The counsel ere the act should hear.
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow;
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now,
Thy days, thy nights in cloister pent,
Anslem of Jarrow, in thee is my hope,
Are still to mystic learning lent;

pears.

"Ye priests of saint Cuthbert, now give me your

XI.

Answer'd the prior-" "Tis wisdom's use Still to delay what we dare not refuse;