And shrieked the night-crow from the oak,
The screech-owl from the thicket broke,
And fluttered down the dell!

So fearful was the sound and stern,
The slumbers of the full-gorged erne
Were startled, and from furze and fern

Of forest and of fell

The fox and famished wolf replied

For wolves then prowled the Cheviot side-
From mountain head to mountain head
The unhallowed sounds around were sped;
But when their latest echo fled

The sorceress on the ground lay dead.

XIX

Such was the scene of blood and woes
With which the bridal morn arose

Of William and of Metelill;

But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread,
The summer morn peeps dim and red
Above the eastern hill,

Ere, bright and fair, upon his road
The king of splendour walks abroad;
So, when this cloud had passed away,
Bright was the noontide of their day
And all serene its setting ray.

CANTO SIXTH

I

WELL do I hope that this my minstrel tale

Will tempt no traveller from southern fields,
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail,

To view the Castle of these Seven Proud Shields.
Small confirmation its condition yields

On the wild heath but those that Fancy builds,

And, save a fosse that tracks the moor with green, Is nought remains to tell of what may there have been.

And yet grave authors, with the no small waste

Of their grave time, have dignified the spot

By theories, to prove the fortress placed
By Roman bands to curb the invading Scot.
Hutchinson, Horseley, 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
And tinged the battlements of other days

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 Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn.

III

These scanned, 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 armèd warders in array,
And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar,
Sate in the portal Terror and Dismay,
While Superstition, who forbade to war

With foes of other mould than mortal clay, Cast spells across the gate and barred the onward way.

Vain now those spells; for soon with heavy clank The feebly-fastened gate was inward pushed, And, as it oped, through that emblazoned rank Of antique shields the wind of evening rushed With sound most like a groan and then was hushed. Is none who on such spot such sounds could hear But to his heart the blood had faster rushed; Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb was dear · It spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch of fear.

IV

Yet Harold and his page no signs have traced
Within the castle that of danger showed;
For still the halls and courts were wild and waste,
As through their precincts the adventurers trode.
The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, and broad,
Each tower presenting to their scrutiny

A hall in which a king might make abode,

And fast beside, garnished both proud and high, Was placed a bower for rest in which a king might lie.

As if a bridal there of late had been,

Decked stood the table in each gorgeous hall;

And yet it was two hundred years, I ween,

Since date of that unhallowed festival.

Flagons and ewers and standing cups were all
Of tarnished gold or silver nothing clear,

With throne begilt and canopy of pall,

And tapestry clothed the walls with fragments sear― 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 grinned, as if in scorn amongst them thrown,
The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust bestrewn.

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 disjoined,

Nor dare we from one hour judge that which comes behind.