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!'

XVIII.

Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard,

The stains of recent conflict clear'd,

And thus the Champion proved, That he fears now who never fear'd,

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 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.

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 'twere lead,

Or fling aside the volume till to

morrow.

Be cheer'd; 'tis 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 scorn'd to add a note.

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?

And faintly gleam'd cach painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that Baron bold awoke. Starting he woke, and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall, While hastily he spoke.

IV.

'Hearken,my minstrels! which of ye all Touch'd his harp with that dying fall,

So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! what time or where

Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,

And her graceful step and her angelair, And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair,

That pass'd from my bower e'en now?'

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Bretvillehe

Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy: 'Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the

brooklet sings

Murmur'd from our melting strings,

And hush'd you to repose. Had a harp-note sounded here It had caught my watchful ear, Although it fell as faint and shy As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh, When she thinks her lover near.' Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tallHe kept guard in the outer hall: 'Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;

Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell, as when earth receives,

In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves That drop when no winds blow.'

Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein, And ride to Lyulph's tower,

And from the Baron of Triermain

Greet well that sage of power.
He is sprung from Druid sires,
And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,
Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and courseofstars.
He shall tell if middle earth
To that enchanting shape gave birth,
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,
Such as fantastic slumbers bring,
Fram'd from the rainbow's varying
dyes

Or fading tints of western skies.
For, by the Blessed Rood I swear,
If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!'

VII.

The faithful Page he mounts his steed, And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,

Dash'do'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barr'd his course in vain.