Classic Poem

I

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 main.
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.

II

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, Saint Mary, from flood and from fire,
From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's ire!’

III

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 Briton's broad isle.

IV

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.

V

‘Thou hast murdered, robbed, and spoiled,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoiled;
Priests didst thou slay and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;
Fiends hast thou 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.’

VI

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and Wear,
To be held of the church by bridle and spear,
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale 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!’

VII

Up then arose that grim convertite,
Homeward he hied him 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.

VIII

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:—

IX

‘What priest-led hypocrite art thou
With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his vow?
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,
Who won his bride by the axe and sword;
From the shrine of Saint 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 strong;
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?
O, out upon thine endless shame!
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,
And thy son will refuse thee a father's name!’

X

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,
But reckoning to none of my actions I owe,
And least to my son such accounting will show.
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth,
Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason or ruth?
Hence! to the wolf and the bear in her den;
These are thy mates, and not rational men.’

XI

Grimly smiled Harold and coldly replied,
‘We must honor our sires, if we fear when they chide.
For me, I am yet what thy lessons have made,
I was rocked in a buckler and fed from a blade;
An infant, was taught to clasp hands and to shout
From the roofs of the tower when the flame had broke out;
In the blood of slain foemen my finger to dip,
And tinge with its purple my cheek and my lip.—
'T is thou know'st not truth, that hast bartered in eld
For a price the brave faith that thine ancestors held.
When this wolf’—and the carcass he flung on the plain—
‘Shall awake and give food to her nurslings again,
The face of his father will Harold review;
Till then, aged heathen, young Christian, adieu!’

XII

Priest, monk, and prelate stood aghast,
As through the pageant the heathen passed.
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung,
Laid his hand on the pommel and into it sprung.
Loud was the shriek and deep the groan
When the holy sign on the earth was thrown!
The fierce old count unsheathed his brand,
But the calmer prelate stayed his hand.
‘Let him pass free!—Heaven knows its hour,—
But he must own repentance's power,
Pray and weep, and penance bear,
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the Wear.’
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father is gone
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son.

XIII

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall,
Revelled priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all;
And e'en the good bishop was fain to endure
The scandal which time and instruction might cure:
It were dangerous, he deemed, at the first to restrain
In his wine and his wassail a half-christened Dane.
The mead flowed around and the ale was drained dry,
Wild was the laughter, the song, and the cry;
With Kyrie Eleison came clamorously in
The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan, and Finn,
Till man after man the contention gave o'er,
Outstretched on the rushes that strewed the hall floor;
And the tempest within, having ceased its wild rout,
Gave place to the tempest that thundered without.

XIV

Apart from the wassail in turret alone
Lay flaxen-haired Gunnar, old Ermengarde's son;
In the train of Lord Harold that page was the first,
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde nursed;
And grieved was young Gunnar his master should roam,
Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from home.
He heard the deep thunder, the plashing of rain,
He saw the red lightning through shot-hole and pane;
‘And O!’ said the page, ‘on the shelterless wold
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and cold!
What though he was stubborn and wayward and wild,
He endured me because I was Ermengarde's child,
And often from dawn till the set of the sun
In the chase by his stirrup unbidden I run;
I would I were older, and knighthood could bear,
I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne and the Wear:
For my mother's command with her last parting breath
Bade me follow her nursling in life and to death.

XV

‘It pours and it thunders, it lightens amain,
As if Lok the Destroyer had burst from his chain!
Accursed by the church and expelled by his sire,
Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter or fire,
And this tempest what mortal may houseless endure?
Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor!
Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not here.’
He leapt from his couch and he grasped to his spear,
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturbed by his tread,
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the dead:
‘Ungrateful and bestial!’ his anger broke forth,
‘To forget mid your goblets the pride of the North!
And you, ye cowled priests who have plenty in store,
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and ore.’

XVI

Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse,
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaux's purse:
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning has missed
His mantle, deep furred from the cape to the wrist:
The seneschal's keys from his belt he has ta'en—
Well drenched on that eve was old Hildebrand's brain—
To the stable-yard he made his way
And mounted the bishop's palfrey gay,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast
And right on his way to the moorland has passed.
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;
So long he snorted, so long he neighed,
There answered a steed that was bound beside,
And the red flash of lightning showed there where lay
His master, Lord Harold, outstretched on the clay.

XVII

Up he started and thundered out, ‘Stand!’
And raised the club in his deadly hand.
The flaxen-haired Gunnar his purpose told,
Showed the palfrey and proffered the gold.
‘Back, back, and home, thou simple boy!
Thou canst not share my grief or joy:
Have I not marked thee wail and cry
When thou hast seen a sparrow die?
And canst thou, as my follower should,
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's blood,
Dare mortal and immortal foe,
The gods above, the fiends below,
And man on earth, more hateful still,
The very fountain-head of ill?
Desperate of life and careless of death,
Lover of bloodshed and slaughter and scathe,
Such must thou be with me to roam,
And such thou canst not be—back, and home!’

XVIII

Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough,
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld the dark brow,
And half he repented his purpose and vow.
But now to draw back were bootless shame,
And he loved his master, so urged his claim:
‘Alas! if my arm and my courage be weak,
Bear with me awhile for old Ermengarde's sake;
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith
As to fear he would break it for peril of death.
Have I not risked it to fetch thee this gold,
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from cold?
And, did I bear a baser mind,
What lot remains if I stay behind?
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath,
A dungeon, and a shameful death.’

XIX

With gentler look Lord Harold eyed
The page, then turned his head aside;
And either a tear did his eyelash stain,
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain.
‘Art thou an outcast, then?’ quoth he;
‘The meeter page to follow me.’
'T were bootless to tell what climes they sought,
Ventures achieved, and battles fought;
How oft with few, how oft alone,
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won.
Men swore his eye, that flashed so red
When each other glance was quenched with dread,
Bore oft a light of deadly flame
That ne'er from mortal courage came.
Those limbs so strong, that mood so stern,
That loved the couch of heath and fern,
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town,
More than to rest on driven down;
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood,
Men deemed must come of aught but good;
And they whispered the great Master Fiend was at one
With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son.

XX

Years after years had gone and fled,
The good old prelate lies lapped in lead;
In the chapel still is shown
His sculptured form on a marble stone,
With staff and ring and scapulaire,
And folded hands in the act of prayer.
Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now
On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's brow;
The power of his crosier he loved to extend
O'er whatever would break or whatever would bend;
And now hath he clothed him in cope and in pall,
And the Chapter of Durham has met at his call.
‘And hear ye not, brethren,’ the proud bishop said,
‘That our vassal, the Danish Count Witikind 's dead?
All his gold and his goods hath he given
To holy Church for the love of Heaven,
And hath founded a chantry with stipend and dole
That priests and that beadsmen may pray for his soul:
Harold his son is wandering abroad,
Dreaded by man and abhorred by God;
Meet it is not that such should heir
The lands of the Church on the Tyne and the Wear,
And at her pleasure her hallowed hands
May now resume these wealthy lands.’

XXI

Answered good Eustace, a canon old,—
‘Harold is tameless and furious and bold;
Ever Renown blows a note of fame
And a note of fear when she sounds his name:
Much of bloodshed and much of scathe
Have been their lot who have waked his wrath.
Leave him these lands and lordships still,
Heaven in its hour may change his will;
But if reft of gold and of living bare,
An evil counsellor is despair.’
More had he said, but the prelate frowned,
And murmured his brethren who sate around,
And with one consent have they given their doom
That the Church should the lands of Saint Cuthbert resume.
So willed the prelate; and canon and dean
Gave to his judgment their loud amen.

CANTO SECOND

I

'T is merry in greenwood—thus runs the old lay—
In the gladsome month of lively May,
When the wild birds' song on stem and spray
 Invites to forest bower;
Then rears the ash his airy crest,
Then shines the birch in silver vest,
And the beech in glistening leaves is drest,
And dark between shows the oak's proud breast
 Like a chieftain's frowning tower;
Though a thousand branches join their screen,
Yet the broken sunbeams glance between
And tip the leaves with lighter green,
 With brighter tints the flower:
Dull is the heart that loves not then
The deep recess of the wildwood glen,
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den
 When the sun is in his power.

II

Less merry perchance is the fading leaf
That follows so soon on the gathered sheaf
 When the greenwood loses the name;
Silent is then the forest bound,
Save the redbreast's note and the rustling sound
Of frost—nipt leaves that are dropping round,
Or the deep-mouthed cry of the distant hound
 That opens on his game:
Yet then too I love the forest wide,
Whether the sun in splendor ride
And gild its many-colored side,
Or whether the soft and silvery haze
In vapory folds o'er the landscape strays,
And half involves the woodland maze,
 Like an early widow's veil,
Where wimpling tissue from the gaze
The form half hides and half betrays
 Of beauty wan and pale.

III

Fair Metelill was a woodland maid,
Her father a rover of greenwood shade,
By forest statutes undismayed,
 Who lived by bow and quiver;
Well known was Wulfstane's archery
By merry Tyne both on moor and lea,
Through wooded Weardale's glens so free,
Well beside Stanhope's wildwood tree,
 And well on Ganlesse river.
Yet free though he trespassed on woodland game,
More known and more feared was the wizard fame
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's dame;
Feared when she frowned was her eye of flame,
 More feared when in wrath she laughed;
For then, 't was said, more fatal true
To its dread aim her spell-glance flew
Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew
 Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft.

IV

Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair,
So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair;
 None brighter crowned the bed,
In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince,
Nor hath perchance a lovelier since
 In this fair isle been bred.
And nought of fraud or ire or ill
Was known to gentle Metelill,—
 A simple maiden she;
The spells in dimpled smile that lie,
And a downcast blush, and the darts that fly
With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye,
 Were her arms and witchery.
So young, so simple was she yet,
She scarce could childhood's joys forget,
And still she loved, in secret set
 Beneath the greenwood tree,
To plait the rushy coronet
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.

V

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.

VI

SONG

‘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!’

VII

Sudden she stops—and starts to feel
A weighty hand, a glove of steel,
Upon her shrinking shoulders laid;
Fearful she turned, and saw dismayed
A knight in plate and mail arrayed,
His crest and bearing worn and frayed,
 His surcoat soiled and riven,
Formed like that giant race of yore
Whose long-continued crimes outwore
 The sufferance of Heaven.
Stern accents made his pleasure known,
Though then he used his gentlest tone:
‘Maiden,’ he said, ‘sing forth thy glee.
Start not—sing on—it pleases me.’

VIII

Secured within his powerful hold,
To bend her knee, her hands to fold,
 Was all the maiden might;
And ‘O, forgive,’ she faintly said,
‘The terrors of a simple maid,
 If thou art mortal wight!
But if—of such strange tales are told—
Unearthly warrior of the wold,
Thou comest to chide mine accents bold,
My mother, Jutta, knows the spell
At noon and midnight pleasing well
 The disembodied ear;
O, let her powerful charms atone
For aught my rashness may have done,
 And cease thy grasp of fear.’
Then laughed the knight—his laughter's sound
Half in the hollow helmet drowned;
His barred visor then he raised,
And steady on the maiden gazed.
He smoothed his brows, as best he might,
To the dread calm of autumn night,
 When sinks the tempest roar,
Yet still the cautious fishers eye
The clouds and fear the gloomy sky,
 And haul their barks on shore.

IX

‘Damsel,’ he said, ‘be wise, and learn
Matters of weight and deep concern:
 From distant realms I come,
And wanderer long at length have planned
In this my native Northern land
 To seek myself a home.
Nor that alone—a mate I seek;
She must be gentle, soft, and meek,—
 No lordly dame for me;
Myself am something rough of mood
And feel the fire of royal blood,
And therefore do not hold it good
 To match in my degree.
Then, since coy maidens say my face
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace,
For a fair lineage to provide
'T is meet that my selected bride
 In lineaments be fair;
I love thine well—till now I ne'er
Looked patient on a face of fear,
But now that tremulous sob and tear
 Become thy beauty rare.
One kiss—nay, damsel, coy it not!—
And now go seek thy parents' cot,
And say a bridegroom soon I come
To woo my love and bear her home.’

X

Home sprung the maid without a pause,
As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws;
But still she locked, howe'er distressed,
The secret in her boding breast;
Dreading her sire, who oft forbade
Her steps should stray to distant glade.
Night came—to her accustomed nook
Her distaff aged Jutta took,
And by the lamp's imperfect glow
Rough Wulfstane trimmed his shafts and bow.
Sudden and clamorous from the ground
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.

XI

‘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 fail?
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
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.

XII

But soon the wit of woman woke,
And to the warrior mild she spoke:
‘Her child was all too young.’—‘A toy,
The refuge of a maiden coy.’
Again, ‘A powerful baron's heir
Claims in her heart an interest fair.’
‘A trifle—whisper in his ear
That Harold is a suitor here!’—
Baffled at length she sought delay:
‘Would not the knight till morning stay?
Late was the hour—he there might rest
Till morn, their lodge's honored guest.’
Such were her words—her craft might cast
Her honored guest should sleep his last:
‘No, not to-night—but soon,’ he swore,
‘He would return, nor leave them more.’
The threshold then his huge stride crost,
And soon he was in darkness lost.

XIII

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.

XIV

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
Yon 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?’

XV

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.

XVI

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 car
His throat would ope, his foot would stir;
By crouch, by trembling, and by groan,
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 way.
Such music cheered her journey lone
To the deep dell and rocking stone:
There with unhallowed hymn of praise
She called a god of heathen days.

XVII

INVOCATION

‘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 bath streamed!
Now one woman comes alone
And but wets it with her own,
The last, the feeblest of thy flock,—
Hear—and be present, Zerneboek!

‘Hark! he comes! the night-blast cold
Wilder sweeps along the wold;
The cloudless moon grows dark and dim,
And bristling hair and quaking limb
Proclaim the Master Demon nigh,—
Those who view his form shall die!
Lo! I stoop and veil my bead;
Thou who ridest the tempest dread,
Shaking hill and rending oak—
Spare me! spare me, 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.’—

XVIII

‘Daughter of dust,’ the Deep Voice said—
Shook while it spoke the vale for dread,
Rocked on the base that massive stone,
The Evil Deity to own,—
‘Daughter of dust! not mine the power
Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour.
'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife
Waged for his soul and for his life,
And fain would we the combat win
And snatch him in his hour of sin.
There is a star now rising red
That threats him with an influence dread:
Woman, thine arts of malice whet,
To use the space before it set.
Involve him with the church in strife,
Push on adventurous chance his life;
Ourself will in the hour of need,
As best we may, thy counsels speed.’
So ceased the Voice; for seven leagues round
Each hamlet started at the sound,
But slept again as slowly died
Its thunders on the hill's brown side.

XIX

‘And is this all,’ said Jutta stern,
‘That thou canst teach and I can learn?
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.