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.
One morn in kirtle green arrayed Deep in the wood the maiden strayed, And where a fountain sprung She sate her down unseen to thread The scarlet berry's mimic braid,
And while the beads she strung, Like the blithe lark whose carol gay Gives a good-morrow to the day, So lightsomely she sung.
'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 gawds and jewels deck their hair, Yet better loves the dew-drops still That pearl the locks of Metelill.
'The pious palmer loves, iwis, Saint Cuthbert's hallowed 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, He fain but must not have his will Would kiss the beads of Metelill.
'My nurse has told me many a tale, How vows of love are weak and frail; My mother says that courtly youth By rustic maid means seldom sooth. What should they mean? it cannot be That such a warning 's meant for me, For nought—O, nought of fraud or ill Can William mean to Metelill!'
Sudden and clamorous from the ground 190 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 pressed the floor.
All peace be here - What! none replies ? Dismiss your fears and your surprise. "T is I-that maid hath told my tale, — Or, trembler, did thy courage It recks not it is I demand Fair Metelill in marriage band; Harold the Dauntless I, whose name Is brave men's boast and caitiff's shame.' The parents sought each other's eyes With awe, resentment, and surprise: Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began The stranger's size and thews to scan; But as he scanned his courage sunk, And from unequal strife he shrunk, Then forth to blight and blemish flies 210 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 wildered gaze.
Appalled awhile the parents stood, Then changed their fear to angry mood, And foremost fell their words of ill On unresisting Metelill:
Was she not cautioned and forbid, Forewarned, implored, accused, and chid, And must she still to greenwood 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 gained a troubled sleep, Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme And terror of her feverish dream.
Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire Upon each other bent their ire;
A woodsman thou and hast a spear, And couldst thou such an insult bear?' Sullen he said, 'A man contends With men, a witch with sprites and fiends; Not to mere mortal wight belong You gloomy brow and frame so strong. But thou is this thy promise fair, That your Lord William, wealthy heir 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's 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?'
Stern she replied, 'I will not wage War with thy folly or thy rage; But 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 whatso'er I spoke in ire of bow and spear, It is not Harold's destiny
The death of pilfered 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.
Far faster than belonged to age Has Jutta made her pilgrimage. A priest has met her as she passed, And crossed himself and stood aghast: She traced a hamlet not a cur His throat would ope, his foot would stir; By crouch, by trembling, and by groan, 300 They made her hated presence known! 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, Screamed 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, screamed, and started from her
'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 Christian's 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 seamed Hundred victims' blood hath streamed! Now one woman comes alone And but wets it with her own, The last, the feeblest of thy flock,- Hear and be present, 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 uttered once Shall wake thy Master from his trance, Shake his red mansion-house of pain And burst his seven times - twisted chain ! -
So! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke ? I own thy presence, Zernebock.'.
'Daughter of dust,' the Deep Voice said
Shook while it spoke the vale for dread, Rocked on the base that massive stone,
'And is this all,' said Jutta stern, 'That thou canst teach and I can learn? 380 Hence! to the land of fog and waste, There fittest is thine influence placed, Thou powerless, sluggish Deity! But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee Again before so poor a god.' She struck the altar with her rod; Slight was the touch as when at need A damsel stirs her tardy steed; But to the blow the stone gave place, And, starting from its balanced base, Rolled thundering down the moonlight
dell, - Re-echoed moorland, rock, and fell; Into the moonlight tarn it dashed, Their shores the sounding surges lashed, And there was ripple, rage, and foam; But on that lake, so dark and lone, Placid and pale the moonbeam shone As Jutta hied her home.
Well yet I love thy mixed 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 hallowed 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
And fain its numbers would I now command
To paint the beauties of that dawning fair
When Harold, gazing from its lofty
Upon the western heights of Beaurepaire, Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by winding Wear.
The morning mists rose from the ground, Each merry bird awakened round
Afar the bugle's clanging sound Called to the chase the lagging hound;
The gale breathed soft and free, And seemed to linger on its way To catch fresh odors 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 doffed his helmet's gloomy pride And hung it on a tree beside,
Laid mace and falchion by, And on the greens ward sate him down And from his dark habitual frown
Relaxed his rugged browWhoever hath the doubtful task From that stern Dane a boon to ask Were wise to ask it now.
His place beside young Gunnar took And marked his master's softening look, And in his eye's dark mirror spied The gloom of stormy thoughts subside, And cautious watched 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 sunbeams fly.
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