VI.

But where the work of vengeance

had been done,

In that seventh chamber, was a sterner sight;

There of the witch-brides lay each

skeleton,

Still in the posture as to death when dight.

For this lay prone, by one blow slain outright;

And that, as one who struggled long in dying;

One bony hand held knife, as if to smite;

One bent on fleshless knees, as

mercy crying;

One lay across the door, as kill'd in act of flying.

The stern Dane smiled this charnel-
house to see,

For his chafed thought return'd to
Metelill;

And 'Well,' he said, 'hath woman's
perfidy,

Empty as air, as water volatile,
Been here avenged. The origin of ill
Through woman rose, the Christian
doctrine saith:

Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy
minstrel skill

Can show example where a woman's breath

Hath made a true-love vow, and, tempted, kept her faith.'

VII.

Firm was that faith, as diamond stone
Pure and unflaw'd, her love unknown,
And unrequited; firm and pure,
Her stainless faith could all endure;
From climetoclime, from place to place,
Through want, and danger, and
disgrace,

A wanderer's wayward steps could

trace.

All this she did, and guerdon none Required, save that her burial-stone Should make at length the secret known,

"Thus hath a faithful woman done." Not in each breast such truth is laid, But Eivir was a Danish maid.'

VIII.

'Thou art a wild enthusiast,' said
Count Harold, 'for thy Danish maid;
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own
Hers were a faith to rest upon.
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone,
And all resembling her are gone.
What maid e'er show'd such constancy
In plighted faith, like thine to me?
But couch thee, boy; the darksome
shade

Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd
Because the dead are by.
They were as we; our little day
O'erspent, and we shall be as they.
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid,
Thy couch upon my mantle made,
That thou mayst think, should fear
invade,

Thy master slumbers nigh.'

sigh'd,

And his half-filling eyes he dried, And said, 'The theme I should but wrong

Unless it were my dying song,
(Our Scalds have said, in dying hour
The Northern harp has treble power)
Else could I tell of woman's faith,
Defying danger, scorn, and death.

Until the beams of dawning glow'd.

IX.

An alter'd man Lord Harold rose; When he beheld that dawn unclose, There's trouble in his eyes, And traces on his brow and cheek Of mingled awe and wonder speak : 'My page,' he said, 'arise;

Leave we this place, my page.' No

more

He utter'd till the castle door

Nor think, a vassal thou of hell, With hell can strive." The fiend spoke true!

'His sable cowl, flung back, reveal'd The features it before conceal'd;

And, Gunnar, I could find In him whose counsels strove to stay So oft my course on wilful way, My father Witikind!

hair,

Jutta the Sorceress was there,
And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately

slain,

All crush'd and foul with bloody stain.
More had I seen, but that uprose
A whirlwind wild, and swept the
snows;

And with such sound as when at need
A champion spurs his horse to speed,
Three armëd knights rush on, who lead
Caparison'd a sable steed.

Sable their harness, and there came Through their closed visors sparks of flame.

The first proclaim'd, in sounds of fear, "Harold the Dauntless,welcome here!" The next cried, "Jubilee! we've won Count Witikind the Waster's son !" And the third rider sternly spoke, "Mount, in the name of Zernebock! From us, O Harold, were thy powers, Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are ours ;

mine,

A wanderer upon earth to pine
Until his son shall turn to grace,
And smooth for him a resting-place.
Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain
This world of wretchedness and pain:
I'll tame my wilful heart to live
In peace, to pity and forgive;
And thou, for so the Vision said,
Must in thy lord's repentance aid.
Thy mother was a prophetess,
He said, who by her skill could guess
How close the fatal textures join
Which knit thy thread of life with mine;
Then, dark, he hinted of disguise
She framed to cheat too curious eyes,
That not a moment might divide
Thy fated footsteps from my side.
Methought while thus, my sire did
teach,

I caught the meaning of his speech,
Yet seems its purport doubtful now.'
His hand then sought his thoughtful

brow;

Then first he mark'd, that in the tower His glove was left at waking hour.

XII.

Trembling at first, and deadly pale, Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale; But when he learn'd the dubious close, He blush'd like any opening rose, And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek, Hied back that glove of mail to seek; When soon a shriek of deadly dread Summon'd his master to his aid.

XIII.

What sees Count Harold in that bower,

So late his resting-place?
The semblance of the Evil Power,

Adored by all his race!
Odin in living form stood there,
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear;
For plumy crest a meteor shed
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head,
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty
To the wild lightnings of his eye.
Such height was his, as when in stone
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown:

So flow'd his hoary beard; Such was his lance of mountain-pine, So did his sevenfold buckler shine;

But when his voice he rear'd, Deep, without harshness, slow and strong,

The powerful accents roll'd along, And, while he spoke, his hand was laid On captive Gunnar's shrinking head.

XIV.

'Harold,' he said, 'what rage is thine, To quit the worship of thy line,

To leave thy Warrior-God? With me is glory or disgrace, Mine is the onset and the chase, Embattled hosts before my face

Are wither'd by a nod.

Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat
Deserved by many a dauntless feat,
Among the heroes of thy line,
Eric and fiery Thorarine?
Thou wilt not. Only I can give
The joys for which the valiant live,

Victory and vengeance; only I

Can give the joys for which they die, The immortal tilt, the banquet full, The brimming draught from foeman's skull.

Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, The faithful pledge of vassal's love.'

XV.

'Tempter,' said Harold, firm of heart, 'I charge thee, hence! whate'er thou art,

I do defy thee, and resist

The kindling frenzy of my breast, Waked by thy words; and of my mail, Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nornail, Shall rest with thee-that youth release,

And God, or Demon, part in peace.'
'Eivir,' the Shape replied, 'is mine,
Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign.
Think'st thou that priest with drops
of spray

Could wash that blood-red mark away?
Or that a borrow'd sex and name
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim?'
Thrill'd this strange speech through
Harold's brain,

He clench'd his teeth in high disdain,
For not his new-born faith subdued
Some tokens of his ancient mood:
'Now, by the hope so lately given
Of better trust and purer heaven,
I will assail thee, fiend!' Then rose
His mace, and with a storm of blows
The mortal and the Demon close.

XVI.

Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, Darken'd the sky and shook the ground;

But not the artillery of hell, The bickering lightning, nor the rock Of turrets to the earthquake's shock, Could Harold's courage quell. Sternly the Dane his purpose kept, And blows on blows resistless heap'd, Till quail'd that Demon Form,

And-for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will-

Evanish'd in the storm.
Nor paused the Champion of the North,
But raised, and bore his Eivir forth,
From that wild scene of fiendish strife,
To light, to liberty, and life!

XVII.

He placed her on a bank of moss,
A silver runnel bubbled by,
And new-born thoughts his soul
engross,

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;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said
('Twere well that maids, when lovers
woo,

Heard none more soft, were all as true):
'Eivir! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,
A Christian knight and Christian bride;
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel
be said,

That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed.

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid?

And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow?

No need to turn the page, as if 'twere lead,

Or fling aside the volume till to

morrow.

Be cheer'd; 'tis ended-and I will not borrow,

To try thy patience more, one anecdote

From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro.

Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote

A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note.