Poetical Works

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, nor nail,
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.

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.

END OF HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

IV.

From stone to stone might safely trip, Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip That binds her slipper's silken rim. Or trust thy lover's strength: nor fear That this same stalwart arm of mine, And why does Lucy shun mine eye?

How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh!

Is it because that crimson draws
Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast
She would not that her Arthur guess'd?
O! quicker far is lovers' ken

Than the dull glance of common men,
And, by strange sympathy, can spell
The thoughts the loved one will not
tell!

And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met The hues of pleasure and regret;

Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow;

Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice,

Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part,

A lyre, a falchion, and a heart?

VI.

Mysword-its master must be dumb; But, when a soldier names my name,

Approach, my Lucy! fearless come, Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame.

My heart! 'mid all yon courtly crew,
Of lordly rank and lofty line,
Is there to love and honour true,
That boasts a pulse so warm as
mine?

Yet shamed thine own is placed They praised thy diamonds' lustre

Norwon-best meed to minstrel true One favouring smile from fair BucCLEUCH!

By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone.

VIII.

But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell
Of errant knight, and damozelle;
Of the dread knot a Wizard tied,
In punishment of maiden's pride,
In notes of marvel and of fear,
That best may charm romantic ear.
For Lucy loves (like COLLINS, ill-
starred name,

Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame,

Who bound no laurel round his living head,

Should hang it o'er his monument when dead)

For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand,

And thread, like him, the maze of fairy

land;

Of golden battlements to view the gleam,

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,

And slumber soft by some Elysian His blood it was fever'd, his breathing

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