Half could I wish my choice had been
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen,
And lofty soul; - yet what of ill
Hast thou to charge on Metelill?'
'Nothing on her,' young Gunnar said,
'But her base sire's ignoble trade.
Her mother too the general fame
Hath given to Jutta evil name,
And in her grey eye is a flame
Art cannot hide nor fear can tame.
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honoured footsteps sought,
And twice returned with such ill rede
As sent thee on some desperate deed.'
'Thou errest; Jutta wisely said,
He that comes suitor to a maid,
Ere linked in marriage, should provide
Lands and a dwelling for his bride-
My father's by the Tyne and Wear
I have reclaimed.' 'O, all too dear
And all too dangerous the prize,
E'en were it won,' young Gunnar cries;
'And then this Jutta's fresh device,
That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane,
From Durham's priests a boon to gain
When thou hast left their vassals slain
In their own halls!' Flashed Harold's eye,
Thundered his voice- 'False page, you lie!'
The castle, hall and tower, is mine,
Built by old Witikind on Tyne.
The wild-cat will defend his den,
Fights for her nest the timid wren;
And think'st thou I'll forego my right
For dread of monk or monkish knight?
Up and away, that deepening bell
Doth of the bishop's conclave tell.
Thither will I in manner due,
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue;
And if to right me they are loath,
Then woe to church and chapter both!'
Now shift the scene and let the curtain fall, And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's hall.
FULL many a bard hath sung the solemn gloom
Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribbed roof,
O'er-canopying shrine and gorgeous tomb,
Carved screen, and altar glimmering far aloof
And blending with the shade a matchless proof
Of high devotion, which hath now waxed cold;
Yet legends say that Luxury's brute hoof
Intruded oft within such sacred fold,
Like step of Bel's false priest tracked in his fane of old.
Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when the rout
Of our neighbours whilome deigned to come,
Uncalled 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 martyred saint and storied tomb,
Though papal miracles had graced the stone,
And though the aisles still loved the organ's swelling
And deem not, though 't is now my part to paint
A prelate swayed 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 own
And such if fame speak truth - the honoured
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-clasped volumes which the hand
Of studious priest but rarely scanned,
Now on fair carved desk displayed,
'T was 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 lengthened row.
Unmoved and silent each sat there,
Like image in his oaken chair;
Nor head nor hand nor foot they stirred,
Nor lock of hair nor tress of beard;
And of their eyes severe alone
The twinkle showed they were not stone.
The prelate was to speech addressed,
Each head sunk reverent on each breast;
But ere his voice was heard - without
Arose a wild tumultuous shout,
Offspring of wonder mixed 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,
Clashed the long bolts, the hinges bray,
And, ere upon angel or saint they can call, `
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of the hall.
'Now save ye, my masters, both rocket and rood, From bishop with mitre to deacon with hood! For here stands Count Harold, old Witikind's son,
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