LIST to the valorous deeds that were done
By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son!
Count Witikind came of a regal strain,
And roved with his Norsemen the land and the
Woe to the realms which he coasted! for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair,
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest,
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast:
When he hoisted his standard black,
Before him was battle, behind him wrack,
And he burned the churches, that heathen Dane,
To light his band to their barks again.
On Erin's shores was his outrage known,
The winds of France had his banners blown ;
Little was there to plunder, yet still
His pirates had forayed on Scottish hill:
But upon merry England's coast
More frequent he sailed, for he won the most.
So wide and so far his ravage they knew,
If a sail but gleamed white 'gainst the welkin blue,
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call,
Burghers hastened to man the wall,
Peasants fled inland his fury to scape,
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape,
Bells were tolled out, and aye as they rung,
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung,
"Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from fire,
From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's ire!"
He liked the wealth of fair England so well,
That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell.
He entered the Humber in fearful hour,
And disembarked with his Danish power.
Three Earls came against him with all their
train,
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain.
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand,
And he wasted and warred in Northumberland.
But the Saxon King was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought;
And the Count took upon him the peaceable style Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle.
Time will rust the sharpest sword,
Time will consume the strongest cord;
That which moulders hemp and steel,
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.
Of the Danish band, whom Count Witikind led, Many waxed aged, and many were dead: Himself found his armor full weighty to bear, Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair; He leaned on a staff, when his step went abroad, And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode.
As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased,
He made himself peace, with prelate and priest;
Made his peace, and, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said:
Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and grave,
Wise and good was the counsel he gave.
"Thou hast murdered, robbed, and spoiled,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoiled;
Priests did'st thou slay, and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;
Fiends thou hast worshipped, with fiendish rite,
Leave now the darkness, and wend into light;
O, while life and space are given,
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!"
That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly gazed;
"Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne,
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto thine."
Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and Wear,
To be held of the church by bridle and spear;
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedalé part,
To better his will, and to soften his heart:
Count Witikind was a joyful man,
Less for the faith than the lands that he wan.
The high church of Durham is dressed for the day,
The clergy are ranked in their solemn array:
There came the Count, in a bear-skin warm,
Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm.
He kneeled before Saint Cuthbert's shrine,
With patience unwonted at rites divine;
He abjured the gods of heathen race,
And he bent his head at the font of grace.
But such was the grisly old proselyte's look, That the priest who baptized him grew pale and shook;
And the old monks muttered beneath their hood, "Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good!"
Up then arose that grim convertite,
Homeward he hied when ended the rite;
The prelate in honor will with him ride,
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side.
Banners and banderols danced in the wind,
Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind;
Onward they passed, till fairly did shine
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne;
And full in front did that fortress lour,
In darksome strength with its buttress and tower:
At the castle gate was young Harold there,
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.
Young Harold was feared for his hardihood,
His strength of frame, and his fury of mood.
Rude he was and wild to behold,
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,
Cap of vair nor rich array,
Such as should grace that festal day:
His doublet of bull's hide was all unbraced,
Uncovered his head, and his sandal unlaced:
His shaggy black locks on his brow hung low,
And his eyes glanced through them a swarthy glow;
A Danish club in his hand he bore,
The spikes were clotted with recent gore;
At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-cubs twain,
In the dangerous chase that morning slain.
Rude was the greeting his father he made,
None to the Bishop, while thus he said: -
"What priest-led hypocrite art thou,
With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his vow?
Cans't thou be Witikind the Waster known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,
Who won his bride by axe and sword;
From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice who tore, And melted to bracelets for Freya and Thor; With one blow of his gauntlet who burst the skull, Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain Bull?
Then ye worshipped with rites that to war-gods belong,
With the deed of the brave, and the blow of the
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk,
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of hair,
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou bear?
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower
To batten with priest and with paramour?
Oh! out upon thine endless shame!
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,
And thy son will refuse thee a father's name!"
Ireful waxed old Witikind's look,
His faltering voice with fury shook;
"Hear me, Harold of hardened heart!
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert.
Thine outrage insane I command thee to cease,
Fear my wrath and remain at peace:—
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid,
Richly the church has a recompense made,
And the truth of her doctrines I prove with my blade.
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