For the first time Count Harold owns leech-craft has power, of a flower!' Of that bad sire let not the charge be| Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice pace, From grave to cradle ran the evil race: 'Relentless in his avarice and ire, Churches and towns he gave to sword and fire; Shed blood like water, wasted every land, With the juice of wild roots that his art had distill'd; So baneful their influence on all that had breath, One drop had been frenzy, and two had been death. Like the destroying angel's burning Harold took it, but drank not; for brand; Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be jubilee shrill, And music and clamour were heard on the hill, invented, Yes! all these things he did he did, And down the steep pathway, o'er but he repented! stock and o'er stone, Perchance it is part of his punishment The train of a bridal came blithe That his offspring pursues his example There was song, there was pipe, there And cold dews drop from my brow Joy shook his torch above the band, and my head. Ho! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner gave; By many a various passion fann'd; He said that three drops would recall Gentle, or stormy, or refined, from the grave. Joy takes the colours of the mind. Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd, He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast; More feebly strove with maiden fear, Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows Like dewdrop on the budding rose ; While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared The glee that selfish avarice shared, And pleased revenge and malice high Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. On dangerous adventure sped, The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, For thus that morn her Demon said: The Dane shall have no power of ill Must Harold have pass'd from the paths of men! Evil repose may his spirit have; His shout was like the doom of death Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd beneath. His destined victims might not spy The reddening terrors of his eye, The frown of rage that writhed his face, The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase; But all could see and, seeing, all Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall-The fragment which their giant foe Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw. XV. Backward they bore: yet are there two For battle who prepare ; No pause of dread Lord William knew Ere his good blade was bare; And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew, But ere the silken cord he drew, As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder, flew That ruin through the air! To choose the path of good or ill, XVI. As from the bosom of the sky But dares the fight in vain, So fought the bridegroom; from his hand The Dane's rude mace has struck his brand, T Vain now those spells; for soon with heavy clank The feebly-fasten'd gate was inward push'd, And, as it oped, through that emblazon'd rank Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, With throne begilt, and canopy of pall, And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments sear: Of antique shields, the wind of Frail as the spider's mesh did that Was changed ere morning to the murderer's tread. For human bliss and woe in the frail thread Of human life are all so closely twined, That till the shears of Fate the texture shred, The close succession cannot be disjoin'd, Flagons, and ewers, and standing Nor dare we, from one hour, judge cups, were all that which comes behind. Was changed ere morning to the murderer's tread. For human bliss and woe in the frail thread Of human life are all so closely twined, That till the shears of Fate the texture shred, The close succession cannot be disjoin'd, Flagons, and ewers, and standing Nor dare we, from one hour, judge cups, were all that which comes behind. |