the spot 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 armour-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 By theories, to prove the fortress Upon these antique shields, all wasted placed By Roman bands, to curb the invading Scot. Hutchinson, Horsley, 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, now and worn. III. These scann'd, 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 Dis may, While Superstition, who forbade to war With foes of other mould than mortal clay, And tinged the battlements of other Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd day's the onward way. Vain now those spells; for soon with heavy clank The feebly-fasten'd gate was inward push'd, And, as it oped, through that emblazon'd rank Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, With throne begilt, and canopy of pall, And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments sear: Of antique shields, the wind of 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 grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst them thrown, The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust bestrown. 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 disjoin'd, Flagons, and ewers, and standing Nor dare we, from one hour, judge cups, were all 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 cach! 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 kill'd in act of flying. The stern Dane smiled this charnel house to see, i 'Thou art a wild enthusiast,' said For his chafed thought return'd to But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone, And all resembling her are gone. And 'Well,' he said, 'hath woman's What maid e'er show'd such constancy perfidy, Empty as air, as water volatile, Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel skill In plighted faith, like thine to me? But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd Because the dead are by. They were as we; our little day O'erspent, and we shall be as they. Can show example where a woman's Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid, breath Thy couch upon my mantle made, Hath made a true-love vow, and, That thou mayst think, should fear tempted, kept her faith.' VII. invade, Thy master slumbers nigh.' The minstrel-boy half smiled, half! Thus couch'd they in that dread abode, Until the beams of dawning glow'd. sigh'd, And his half-filling eyes he dried, wrong, Unless it were my dying song, Leave we this place, my page.' No more He utter'd till the castle door Nor think, a vassal thou of hell, With hell can strive." The fiend spoke true! They cross'd, but there he paused and My inmost soul the summons knew, said, 'My wildness hath awaked the dead, Disturb'd the sacred tomb! Methought this night I stood on high, Where Hecla roars in middle sky, And in her cavern'd 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 wilder'd, as the elvish train, With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain Those who had late been men. X. 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, The demons yell'd and fled! XI. 'His sable cowl, flung back, reveal'd The features it before conceal'd; And, Gunnar, I could find In him whose counsels strove to stay So oft my course on wilful way, My father Witikind! 'With haggard eyes and streaming Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for hair, Jutta the Sorceress was there, And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain, All crush'd and foul with bloody stain. And with such sound as when at need Sable their harness, and there came Through their closed visors sparks of flame. The first proclaim'd, 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; mine, A wanderer upon earth to pine I caught the meaning of his speech, brow; Then first he mark'd, that in the tower His glove was left at waking hour. XII. Trembling at first, and deadly pale, Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale; But when he learn'd the dubious close, He blush'd 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 Summon'd his master to his aid. XIII. What sees Count Harold in that bower, Adored by all his race! 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 Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, 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, nornail, Shall rest with thee-that youth release, And God, or Demon, part in peace.' Could wash that blood-red mark away? He clench'd his teeth in high disdain, |