Classic Poem

I

 Well do I hope that this my minstrel tale
 Will tempt no traveller from southern fields,
 Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail,
 To view the Castle of these Seven Proud Shields.
 Small confirmation its condition yields
 To Meneville's high lay,—no towers are seen
 On the wild heath but those that Fancy builds,
 And, save a fosse that tracks the moor with green,
Is nought remains to tell of what may there have been.

 And yet grave authors, with the no small waste
 Of their grave time, have dignified the spot
 By theories, to prove the fortress placed
 By Roman bands to curb the invading Scot.
 Hutchinson, Horseley, Camden, I might quote,
 But rather choose the theory less civil
 Of boors, who, origin of things forgot,
 Refer still to the origin of evil,
And for their master-mason choose that master-fiend the Devil.

II

 Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built towers
 That stout Count Harold bent his wondering gaze
 When evening dew was on the heather flowers,
 And the last sunbeams made the mountain blaze
 And tinged the battlements of other days
 With the bright level light ere sinking down.
 Illumined thus, the dauntless Dane surveys
 The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the portal frown,
And on their blazons traced high marks of old renown.

 A wolf North Wales had on his armor-coat,
 And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag;
 Strath-Clwyd's strange emblem was a stranded boat,
 Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag;
 A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag;
 A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn;
 Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag
 Surmounted by a cross—such signs were borne
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn.

III

 These scanned, Count Harold sought the castle-door,
 Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to decay;
 Yet till that hour adventurous knight forbore
 The unobstructed passage to essay.
 More strong than armed warders in array,
 And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar,
 Sate in the portal Terror and Dismay,
 While Superstition, who forbade to war
 With foes of other mould than mortal clay,
Cast spells across the gate and barred the onward way.

 Vain now those spells; for soon with heavy clank
 The feebly-fastened gate was inward pushed,
 And, as it oped, through that emblazoned rank
 Of antique shields the wind of evening rushed
 With sound most like a groan and then was bushed.
 Is none who on such spot such sounds could hear
 But to his heart the blood had faster rushed;
 Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb was dear—
It spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch of fear.

IV

 Yet Harold and his page no signs have traced
 Within the castle that of danger showed;
 For still the halls and courts were wild and waste,
 As through their precincts the adventurers trode.
 The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, and broad,
 Each tower presenting to their scrutiny
 A hall in which a king might make abode,
 And fast beside, garnished both proud and high,
Was placed a bower for rest in which a king might lie.

 As if a bridal there of late had been,
 Decked stood the table in each gorgeous hall;
 And yet it was two hundred years, I ween,
 Since date of that unhallowed festival.
 Flagons and ewers and standing cups were all
 Of tarnished gold or silver nothing clear,
 With throne begilt and canopy of pall,
 And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments sear—
Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich woof appear.
V

 In every bower, as round a hearse, was hung
 A dusky crimson curtain o'er the bed,
 And on each couch in ghastly wise were flung
 The wasted relics of a monarch dead;
 Barbaric ornaments around were spread,
 Vests twined with gold and chains of precious stone,
 And golden circlets, meet for monarch's head;
 While grinned, as if in scorn amongst them thrown,
The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust bestrewn.

 For these were they who, drunken with delight,
 On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their head,
 For whom the bride's shy footstep, slow and light,
 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 disjoined,
Nor dare we from one hour judge that which comes behind.

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 killed in act of flying.

 The stern Dane smiled this charnel-house to see,—
 For his chafed thought returned 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

The minstrel-boy half smiled, half sighed,
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.
Firm was that faith—as diamond stone
Pure and unflawed—her love unknown
And unrequited;—firm and pure,
Her stainless faith could all endure;
From clime to clime, 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 showed such constancy
In plighted faith, like thine to me?
But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade
Falls thickly round, nor be dismayed
 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.’
Thus couched they in that dread abode,
Until the beams of dawning glowed.

IX

An altered 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 uttered till the castle door
They crossed—but there he paused and said,
‘My wildness hath awaked the dead—
 Disturbed the sacred tomb!
Methought this night I stood on high
Where Hecla roars in middle sky,
And in her caverned gulfs could spy
The central place of doom;
And there before my mortal eye
Souls of the dead came flitting by,
Whom fiends with many a fiendish cry
 Bore to that evil den!
My eyes grew dizzy and my brain
Was wildered, as the elvish train
With shriek and howl dragged on amain
 Those who had late been men.

X

‘With haggard eyes and streaming hair,
Jutta the Sorceress was there,
And there passed Wulfstane lately slain,
All crushed 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 armed knights rush on who lead
Caparisoned a sable steed.
Sable their harness, and there came
Through their closed visors sparks of flame.
The first proclaimed, 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;
Nor think, a vassal thou of hell,
With hell can strive.” The fiend spoke true!
My inmost soul the summons knew,
 As captives know the knell
That says the headsman's sword is bare
And with an accent of despair
 Commands them quit their cell.
I felt resistance was in vain,
My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en,
My hand was on the fatal mane,
 When to my rescue sped
That palmer's visionary form,
And—like the passing of a storm—
 The demons yelled and fled!

XI

‘His sable cowl flung back revealed
The features it before concealed;
 And, Gunnar, I could find
In him whose counsels strove to stay
So oft my course on wilful way
 My father Witikind!
Doomed for his sins and doomed for 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 marked, that in the tower
His glove was left at waking hour.

XII

Trembling at first and deadly pale,
Had Gunnar heard the visioned tale;
But when he learned the dubious close
He blushed 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
Summoned 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 veiled 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 flowed his hoary beard;
Such was his lance of mountain-pine,
So did his sevenfold buckler shine;
 But when his voice he reared,
Deep without harshness, slow and strong,
The powerful accents rolled 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 withered 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 nor nail,
Shall rest with thee—that youth release,
And, God or Demon, part in peace.’—
‘Eivir,’ the Shape replied, ‘is mine,
Marked 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 borrowed sex and name
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim?’
Thrilled this strange speech through Harold's brain,
He clenched 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 rolled above, fire flashed around,
Darkened 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 heaped,
 Till quailed that demon form,
And—for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will—
 Evanished in a 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 marked how life with rosy hue
On her pale cheek revived anew
 And glimmered 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!’

XVIII

Then in the mirrored pool he peered,
Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard,
The stains of recent conflict cleared,—
 And thus the Champion proved
That he fears now who never feared,
 And loves who never loved.
And Eivir—life is on her cheek
And yet she will not move or speak,
 Nor will her eyelid fully ope;
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye,
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy,
Affection's opening dawn to spy;
And the deep blush, which bids its dye
O'er cheek and brow and bosom fly,
 Speaks shamefacedness 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—
 'T were well that maids, when lovers woo,
 Heard none more soft, were all as true—
 ‘Eivir! since thou for many a day
 Hast followed 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 christened 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 't were lead,
 Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow.—
 Be cheered—'t is 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 scorned to add a note.