Poetical works. With illustr

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS.

INTRODUCTION.

THERE is a mood of mind, we all have known

[day, On drowsy eve, or dark and low'ring When the tired spirits lose their sprightly hours away. And nought can chase the lingering Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling

tone,

[vain,

ray, And Wisdom holds his steadier torch in Obscured the painting seems, mistuned the lay,

Nor dare we of our listless load complain, For who for sympathy may seek that cannot tell of pain?

The jolly sportsman knows such drearihood,

When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain, Clouding that morn which threats the

heath-cock's brood; [anglers plain, Of such, in summer's drought, the Who hope the soft mild southern shower in vain;

But, more than all, the discontented fair, Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, restrain

From county-ball, or race occurring rare, While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare.

Ennui !-or, as our mothers call'd thee, Spleen!

To thee we owe full many a rare device;— Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I ween, [dice; The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling The turning-lathe for framing gimcrack nice; [claim, The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou mayst Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice (Murders disguised by philosophic And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom game.

[name),

their train,

Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain.
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich
strand,
[berland.

The which, as things unfitting_graver Three Earls came against him with alı thought, [day.Are burnt or blotted on some wiser These few survive-and proudly let me say, [his frown; Court not the critic's smile, nor dread They well may serve to wile an hour away, [nown, Nor does the volume ask for more reThan Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops it down.

On Erin's shores was his outrage known,
The winds of France had his banners
blown;

Little was there to plunder, yet still
His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill:
But upon merry England's coast [most.
More frequent he sail'd, for he won the
So wide and so far his ravage they knew,
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the
welkin blue,

Trumpet and bugle to arms did call,
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall,
Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape,
Beacons were lighted on headland and
cape,

Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung,
Fearful and faintly the grey brothers sung,
"Bless us, Saint Mary, from flood and
from fire,

From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's ire!"

III.

He liked the wealth of fair England so well,
That he sought in her bosom as native to
dwell.

He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour,
And disembark'd with his Danish power.

And he wasted and warr'd in Northum-
But the Saxon King was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought;
And the Count took upon him the peace-
able style
[broad isle.
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's

IV.

Time will rust the sharpest sword,
Time will consume the strongest cord;
That which moulders hemp and steel,
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.
Of the Danish band, whom Count Witi-
kind led,

Himself found his armour full weighty to
Many wax'd agèd, and many were dead:
bear,
[hair;
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his
He lean'd on a staff, when his step went
abroad,
[bestrode.
And patient his palfrey, when steed he
As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased,
He made himself peace with prelate and

priest;

Made his peace, and, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said:
Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and

grave,

Wise and good was the counsel he gave.

"Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoiled;
Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish
rite,
[light:

Leave now the darkness, and wend into
O! while life and space are given,
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!"
That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly
gazed;
[the Tyne,

"Give me broad lands on the Wear and
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto
thine."

VI.

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and
Wear,
[spear;

To be held of the Church by bridle and
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tyndale part,
To better his will, and to soften his heart:
Count Witikind was a joyful man,

Less for the faith than the lands that he

wan.

The high church of Durham is dress'd for the day,

The clergy are ranked in their solemn array: [warm, There came the Count, in a bear-skin Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm. He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine, With patience unwonted at rites divine; He abjured the gods of heathen race, And he bent his head at the font of grace. But such was the grisly old proselyte's look, [pale and shook; That the priest who baptized him grew And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood,

Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord, Who won his bride by the axe and sword; From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice who tore, [Thor; And melted to bracelets for Freya and With one blow of his gauntlet who burst the skull,

Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain Bull? Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to wargods belong, [of the strong;

With the deed of the brave, and the blow And now, in thine age to dotage sunk, Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,[hair,Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of "Of a stem so stubborn can never spring Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou good!"

VII.

Up then arose that grim convertite, [rite; Homeward he hied him when ended the The Prelate in honour will with him ride, And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side. Banners and banderols danced in the wind, Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind;

Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne; And full in front did that fortress lower, In darksome strength with its buttress and tower:

At the castle gate was young Harold there, Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.

VIII.

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardihood, [mood. His strength of frame, and his fury of Rude he was and wild to behold, Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold, Cap of vair nor rich array,

Such as should grace that festal day: His doublet of bull's hide was all unbraced, [laced: Uncover'd his head, and his sandal unHis shaggy black locks on his brow hung low, [swarthy glow; And his eyes glanced through them a A Danish club in his hand he bore, The spikes were clotted with recent gore; At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-cubs twain,

In the dangerous chase that morning slain. Rude was the greeting his father he made, None to the Bishop,-while thus he said:

IX.

"What priest-led hypocrite art thou, With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow, [vow? Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his Canst thou be Witikind the Waster known, Royal Eric's fearless son,

bear?

Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower
To batten with priest and with paramour?
Oh! out upon thine endless shame!
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy
fame,
[name!
And thy son will refuse thee a father's
X.

Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look,
His faltering voice with fury shook :-
"Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart!
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert,
Thine outrage insane I command thee to

cease,

Fear my wrath and remain at peace:Just is the debt of repentance I've paid, Richly the Church has a recompense made, And the truth of her doctrines I prove with my blade, [owe,

But reckoning to none of my actions And least to my son such accounting will show.

Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth, Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason or ruth?

Hence! to the wolf and the bear in her den; These are thy mates, and not rational men."

XI.

Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied, "We must honour our sires, if we fear when they chide.

For me, I am yet what thy lessons have made, [blade;

I was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a An infant, was taught to clasp hands and to shout [had broke out; From the roofs of the tower when the flame In the blood of slain foemen my finger to dip, [my lip.And tinge with its purple my cheek and 'Tis thou know'st not truth, that hast barter'd in eld,

For a price, the brave faith that thine ancestors held.

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XIII.

He heard the deep thunder, the piashing
of rain,

He saw the red lightning through shot-
hole and pane;
[terless wold
"And oh!" said the Page, "on the shel-
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and
cold!
[ward, and wild,
What though he was stubborn, and way-
He endured me because I was Ermen-
garde's child,-

And often from dawn till the set of the sun,
In the chase, by his stirrup, unbidden I run;
I would I were older, and knighthood
could bear,
[and the Wear:

I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne
For my mother's command, with her last
parting breath,
[death.
Bade me follow her nursling in life and to

XV.

"It pours and it thunders, it lightens
amain,
[his chain!
As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from
Accursed by the Church, and expell'd by
his sire,

[fire, Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter or And this tempest what mortal may houseless endure?

Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor,
Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not
here."
[his spear;
He leapt from his couch, and he grasp'd to
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd
by his tread,
[dead:
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the
Ungrateful and bestial!" his anger
broke forth,
[the North!

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall, Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all; [dure And e'en the good Bishop was fain to enThe scandal, which time and instruction might cure: [to restrain, It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first In his wine and his wassail, a half-chris-"To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of ten'd Dane. [drain'd dry, And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have The mead flow'd around, and the ale was plenty in store, [and ore." Wild was the laughter, the song, and the Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey cry;

With Kyrie Eleison came clamorously in
The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan,
and Finn.
[o'er,
Till man after man the contention gave
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the
hall floor;
[wild rout,
And the tempest within, having ceased its
Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd
without.

XIV.

Apart from the wassail, in turret alone,
Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermen-
garde's son;
[the first,
In the train of Lord Harold that Page was
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde
nursed;
[should roam,
And grieved was young Gunnar his master
Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from
home.

XVI.

Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse,
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaux's
purse:
[miss'd
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning has
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to
the wrist;
[ta'en
The Seneschal's keys from his belt he has
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hilde-
brand's brain).

To the stable-yard he made his way,
And mounted the Bishop's palfrey gay,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast,
And right on his way to the moorland has
pass'd.

Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;
So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd,
There answer'd a steed that was bound
beside,

And the red flash of lightning show'd there where lay [the clay. His master, Lord Harold, outstretch'd on

XVII.

Up he started, and thunder'd out, "Stand!"

And raised the club in his deadly hand.
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told,
Show'd the palfrey and proffer'd the gold.
"Back, back, and home, thou simple boy!
Thou canst not share my grief or joy:
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry
When thou hast seen a sparrow die?
And canst thou, as my follower should,
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's blood,
Dare mortal and immortal foe,
The gods above, the fiends below,
And man on earth, more hateful still,
The
very fountain-head of ill?
Desperate of life, and careless of death,
Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and
scathe,

Such must thou be with me to roam,
And such thou canst not be-back, and
home!"

XVIII.

Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough, As he heard the harsh voice and beheld the dark brow,

And half he repented his purpose and vow.
But now to draw back were bootless shame,
And he loved his master, so urged his
claim:
[weak,
"Alas! if my arm and my courage be
Bear with me a while for old Ermengarde's
sake;

Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith,
As to fear he would break it for peril of

death.

Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold,
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from
And, did I bear a baser mind, [cold?
What lot remains if I stay behind?
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath,
A dungeon, and a shameful death."

XIX.

With gentler look Lord Harold eyed The Page, then turn'd his head aside; And either a tear did his eyelash stain, Or it caught a drop of the passing rain. "Art thou an outcast, then ?" quoth he; "The meeter page to follow me.' 'Twere bootless to tell what climes they sought,

Ventures achieved, and battles fought; How oft with few, how oft alone,

Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won. Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red When each other glance was quench'd with dread,

Bore oft a light of deadly flame,
That ne'er from mortal courage came.
Those limbs so strong, that mood so stern,
That loved the couch of heath and fern,
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town,
More than to rest on driven down;
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood,
Men deem'd must come of aught but good;
And they whisper'd, the great Master
Fiend was at one

With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son.

XX.

Years after years had gone and fled,
The good old Prelate lies lapp'd in lead;
In the chapel still is shown

His sculptured form on a marble stone,
With staff and ring and scapulaire,
And folded hands in the act of prayer.
Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now
On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's
brow;

The power of his crozier he loved to extend
O'er whatever would break, or whatever
would bend;
[in pall,
And now hath he clothed him in cope and
And the Chapter of Durham has met at
his call.
[Bishop said,
"And hear ye not, brethren," the proud
"That our vassal, the Danish Count
Witikind's dead?

All his gold and his goods hath he given To Holy Church for the love of Heaven, And hath founded a chantry with stipend and dole,

That priests and that beadsmen may pray for his soul:

Harold his son is wandering abroad,
Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God;
Meet it is not, that such should heir
The lands of the Church on the Tyne and
the Wear,

And at her pleasure, her hallow'd hands
May now resume these wealthy lands."

XXI.

Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old,— Harold is tameless, and furious, and Ever Renown blows a note of fame, [bold; And a note of fear, when she sounds his

name;

Much of bloodshed and much of scathe Have been their lot who have waked his wrath.

Leave him these lands and lordships still;
Heaven in its hour may change his will;
But if reft of gold, and of living bare,
An evil counsellor is despair."
More had he said, but the Prelate frown'd,
And murmur'd his brethren who sate
around,

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