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 belong'd to age
Has Jutta made her pilgrimage.
A priest has met her as she pass'd,

And cross'd himself and stood aghast :
She traced a hamlet-not a cur

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,
Scream'd 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, scream'd, and started from her way.
Such music cheer'd her journey lone
To the deep dell and rocking stone:
There, with unhallow'd hynin of praise,
She call'd a God of heathen days.

With prayer and ritual-Jutta's arms
Are necromantic words and charms;
Mine is the spell, that, utter'd 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,
Rock'd 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.

"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 head;
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

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,
Roll'd thundering down the moonlight dell,-
Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell;"

Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd,
Their shores the sounding surges lash'd,
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.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

GREY towers of Durham! there was once a time

I view'd your battlements with such vague hope,

As brightens life in its first dawning prime; Not that e'en then came within fancy's

Scope

He doff'd his helmet's gloomy pride,
And hung it on a tree beside,

Laid mace and falchion by,
And on the greensward sate him down,
And from his dark habitual frown
Relax'd his rugged brow-
Whoever hath the doubtful task
From that stern Dane a boon to ask,
Were wise to ask it now.

IV.

And mark'd his master's softening look,
His place beside young Gunnar took,
And in his eye's dark mirror spied
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside,
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide

To speak a warning word.
So when the torrent's billows shrink,
The timid pilgrim on the brink
Waits long to see them wave and sink,
Ere he dare brave the ford,
And often, after doubtful pause,
His step advances or withdraws:
Fearful to move the slumbering ire
Of his stern lord, thus stood the squire,
Till Harold raised his eye,

Of the dispersing tempest-cloud
That glanced as when athwart the shroud

The bursting sunbeams fly.

V.

"Arouse thec, son of Ermengarde,
Offspring of prophetess and bard!
Take harp, and greet this lovely prime
With some high strain of Runic rhyme,
Strong, deep, and powerful! Peal it round
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound,
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay
Of bird and bugle hail the day.
Such was my grandsire Erick's sport,
When dawn gleam'd on his martial court.
Heymar the Scald, with harp's high sound,
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around;
Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear,
They roused like lions from their lair,
Then rush'd in emulation forth
To enhance the glories of the north.--
Proud Erick, mightiest of thy race,
Where is thy shadowy resting-place?
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaff'd
From foeman's skull metheglin draught,
Or wander'st where thy cairn was piled
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild?
Or have the milder Christians given
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven?
Where'er thou art, to thee are known
Our toils endured, our trophies won,
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes."
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose.

VI.

SONG.

"HAWK and osprey scream'd for joy O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy, Crimson foam the beach o'erspread, The heath was dyed with darker red,

When o'er Erick, Inguar's son,
Dane and Northman piled the stone;
Singing wild the war-song stern,
'Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn !'

"Where eddying currents foam and boil
By Bersa's burgh and Græmsay's isle,
The seaman sees a martial form
Half-mingled with the inist and storm.
In anxious awe he bears away
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay,
And murmurs from the bounding stern,
'Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn!'

"What cares disturb the mighty dead?
Each honour'd rite was duly paid;
No daring hand thy helm unlaced,
Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee placed,
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned,
Without, with hostile blood was stain'd;
Within, 'twas lined with moss and icrn,-
Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn!-

"He may not rest: from realms afar
Comes voice of battle and of war,
Of conquest wrought with bloody hand
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand,
When Odin's warlike son could daunt
The turban'd race of Termagaunt."-

VII.

"Peace," said the Knight, "the noble Scald Our warlike father's deeds recall'd, But never strove to soothe the son With tales of what himself had done. At Odin's board the bard sits high Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery; But highest he whose daring lay Hath dared unwelcome truths to say.' With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed His master's looks, and nought repliedBut well that smile his master led To construe what he left unsaid. "Is it to me, thou timid youth, Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth? My soul no more thy censure grieves Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves. Say on-and yet--beware the rude And wild distemper of my blood; Loath were I that mine ire should wrong The youth that bore my shield so long, And who, in service constant still, Though weak in frame, art strong in will."— "Oh!" quoth the page, "even there depends My counsel-there my warning tendsOft seems as of my master's breast Some demon were the sudden guest; Then at the first misconstrued word His hand is on the mace and sword, From her firm seat his wisdom driven, His life to countless dangers given.O! would that Gunnar could suffice To be the fiend's last sacrifice, So that, when glutted with my gore, He fled and tempted thee no more!

"

Then waved his hand, and shook his head The impatient Dane, while thus he said:

"Profane not, youth-it is not thine
To judge the spirit of our line-
The bold Berserkar's rage divine,
Through whose inspiring, deeds are wrought
Past human strength and human thought.
When full upon his gloomy soul

The champion feels the influence roll,
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall-
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall-
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes
Singly against a host of foes;

Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds,
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds;
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive,
Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
Then rush the cagles to his cry

Of slaughter and of victory,

And blood he quaffs like Odin's bow!,
Deep drinks his sword, deep drinks his

soul;

-

And all that meet him in his ire
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire,

Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
And couches till he's man agen.-
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb,
When 'gins that rage to overbrim-
Thou know'st when I am moved, and why;
And when thou see'st me roll mine eye,
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute;
But else speak boldly out whate'er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour;-
So Christian monks are wont to say
Demons of old were charm'd away;
Then fear not I will rashly deem

Ill of thy speech, whate'er the theme."

IX.

As down some strait in doubt and dread
The watchful pilot drops the lead,
And, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,
The Page his master's brow observed,
Pausing at intervals to fling
His hand on the melodious string,
And to his moody breast apply
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song convey'd the rest.

SONG.

"Ill fares the bark with tackle riven, And ill when on the breakers driven,Ill when the storm-sprite shrieks in air, And the scared mermaid tears her hair But worse when on her helm the hand Of some false traitor holds command.

Ill fares the fainting Palmer, placed 'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste,Ill when the scorching sun is high, And the expected font is dry,Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath, The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death.

Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when the

route

Of our rude neighbours whilome deign'd to

come,

Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep out And cleanse our chancel from the rags of Rome,

They spoke not on our ancient fane the doom To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their own, But spared the martyr'd saint and storied tomb,

Though papal miracles had graced the stone, And though the aisles still loved the organ's swelling tone.

And deem not, though 'tis now my part to paint

A prelate sway'd by love of power and gold, That all who wore the mitre of our Saint Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold;

Since both in modern times and days of old It sate on those whose virtues might atone Their predecessors' frailties trebly told : Matthew and Morton we as such may ownAnd such (if fame speak truth) the honour'd Barrington.

II.

But now to earlier and to ruder times,
As subject meet, I tune my rugged rhymes,
Telling how fairly the chapter was met,
And rood and books in seemly order set;
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the hand
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd,
Now on fair carved desk display'd,
'Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid.
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced,
And quaint devices interlaced,

A labyrinth of crossing rows,
The roof in lessening arches shows:
Beneath its shade, placed proud and high,
With footstool and with canopy,
Sate Aldingar, and prelate ne'er

More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's chair;
Canons and deacons were placed below,
In due degree and lengthen'd row.
Unmoved and silent each sat there,
Like image in his oaken chair;

Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd,
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard;
And of their eyes severe alone

The twinkle show'd they were not stone.

III.

The Prelate was to speech address'd, Each head sunk reverent on each breast; But ere his voice was heard-without Arose a wild tumultuous shout, Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear, Such as in crowded streets we hear Hailing the flames, that, bursting out, Attract yet scare the rabble rout. Ere it had ceased, a giant hand Shook oaken door and iron band, Till oak and iron both gave way, Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray, And, ere upon angel or saint they can call, Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of the hall.