Classic Poem

I

 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 rude neighbors 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 tone.

 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 honored Barrington.

II

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.

III

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.

IV

‘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,
Come to sue for the lands which his ancestors won.’
The prelate looked round him with sore troubled eye,
Unwilling to grant yet afraid to deny;
While each canon and deacon who heard the Dane speak,
To be safely at home would have fasted a week:—
Then Aldingar roused him and answered again,
‘Thou suest for a boon which thou canst not obtain;
The Church hath no fiefs for an unchristened Dane.
Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath given
That the priests of a chantry might hymn him to heaven;
And the fiefs which whilome he possessed as his due
Have lapsed to the Church, and been granted anew
To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,
For the service Saint Cuthbert's blest banner to bear
When the bands of the North come to foray the Wear;
Then disturb not our conclave with wrangling or blame,
But in peace and in patience pass hence as ye came.’

V

Loud laughed the stern Pagan, ‘They're free from the care
Of fief and of service, both Conyers and Vere,—
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need,
A buckler of stone and a corselet of lead.—
Ho, Gunnar!—the tokens!’—and, severed anew,
A head and a hand on the altar he threw.
Then shuddered with terror both canon and monk,
They knew the glazed eye and the countenance shrunk,
And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled hair,
And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic Vere.
There was not a churchman or priest that was there
But grew pale at the sight and betook him to prayer.

VI

Count Harold laughed at their looks of fear:
‘Was this the hand should your banner bear?
Was that the head should wear the casque
In battle at the Church's task?
Was it to such you gave the place
Of Harold with the heavy mace?
Find me between the Wear and Tyne
A knight will wield this club of mine,—
Give him my fiefs, and I will say
There 's wit beneath the cowl of gray.’
He raised it, rough with many a stain
Caught from crushed skull and spouting brain;
He wheeled it that it shrilly sung
And the aisles echoed as it swung,
Then dashed it down with sheer descent
And split King Osric's monument.—
‘How like ye this music? How trow ye the hand
That can wield such a mace may be reft of its land?
No answer?—I spare ye a space to agree,
And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if he be.
Ten strides through your chancel, ten strokes on your bell,
And again I am with you—grave fathers, farewell.’

VII

He turned from their presence, he clashed the oak door,
And the clang of his stride died away on the floor;
And his head from his bosom the prelate uprears
With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost disappears:
‘Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give me your rede,
For never of counsel had bishop more need!
Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and in bone,
The language, the look, and the laugh were his own.
In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is not a knight
Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin in fight;
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply,
'T is unlawful to grant and 't is death to deny.’

VIII

On venison and malmsie that morning had fed
The Cellarer Vinsauf—'t was thus that he said:
‘Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply;
Let the feast be spread fair and the wine be poured high:
If he 's mortal he drinks,—if he drinks, he is ours—
His bracelets of iron,—his bed in our towers.’
This man had a laughing eye,
Trust not, friends, when such you spy;
A beaker's depth he well could drain,
Revel, sport, and jest amain—
The haunch of the deer and the grape's bright dye
Never bard loved them better than I;
But sooner than Vinsauf filled me my wine,
Passed me his jest, and laughed at mine,
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of Bordeaux the vine,
With the dullest hermit I 'd rather dine
On an oaten cake and a draught of the Tyne.

IX

Walwayn the leech spoke next—he knew
Each plant that loves the sun and dew,
But special those whose juice can gain
Dominion o'er the blood and brain;
The peasant who saw him by pale moonbeam
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream
Deemed his thin form and soundless tread
Were those of wanderer from the dead.—
‘Vinsauf, thy wine,’ he said, ‘hath power,
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower;
Yet three drops from this flask of mine,
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine,
Shall give him prison under ground
More dark, more narrow, more profound.
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have—
A dog's death and a heathen's grave.’
I have lain on a sick man's bed,
Watching for hours for the leech's tread,
As if I deemed that his presence alone
Were of power to bid my pain begone;
I have listed his words of comfort given,
As if to oracles from heaven;
I have counted his steps from my chamber door,
And blessed them when they were heard no more;—
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch should nigh,
My choice were by leech-craft unaided to die.

X

‘Such service done in fervent zeal
The Church may pardon and conceal,’
The doubtful prelate said, ‘but ne'er
The counsel ere the act should hear.—
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now,
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow;
Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent,
Are still to mystic learning lent;—
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope,
Thou well mayst give counsel to prelate or pope.’

XI

Answered the prior,—‘'T is wisdom's use
Still to delay what we dare not refuse;
Ere granting the boon he comes hither to ask,
Shape for the giant gigantic task;
Let us see how a step so sounding can tread
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread;
He may not, he will not, impugn our decree
That calls but for proof of his chivalry;
And were Guy to return or Sir Bevis the Strong,
Our wilds have adventure might cumber them long—
The Castle of Seven Shields’—‘Kind Anselm, no more!
The step of the Pagan approaches the door.’
The churchmen were hushed.—In his mantle of skin
With his mace on his shoulder Count Harold strode in.
There was foam on his lips, there was fire in his eye,
For, chafed by attendance, his fury was nigh.
‘Ho! Bishop,’ he said, ‘dost thou grant me my claim?
Or must I assert it by falchion and flame?’

XII

‘On thy suit, gallant Harold,’ the bishop replied,
In accents which trembled, ‘we may not decide
Until proof of your strength and your valor we saw—
'T is not that we doubt them, but such is the law.’—
‘And would you, Sir Prelate, have Harold make sport
For the cowls and the shavelings that herd in thy court?
Say what shall he do?—From the shrine shall he tear
The lead bier of thy patron and heave it in air,
And through the long chancel make Cuthbert take wing
With the speed of a bullet dismissed from the sling?’—
‘Nay, spare such probation,’ the cellarer said,
‘From the mouth of our minstrels thy task shall be read.
While the wine sparkles high in the goblet of gold
And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be told;
And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hearing it, tell
That the bishop, his cowls, and his shavelings, meant well.’

XIII

Loud revelled the guests and the goblets loud rang,
But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, sang;
And Harold, the hurry and pride of whose soul,
E'en when verging to fury, owned music's control,
Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye,
And often untasted the goblet passed by;
Than wine or than wassail to him was more dear
The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to hear;
And the bishop that day might of Vinsauf complain
That his art had but wasted his wine-casks in vain.

XIV

THE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS

A BALLAD

The Druid Urien had daughters seven,
Their skill could call the moon from heaven;
So fair their forms and so high their fame
That seven proud kings for their suitors came.

King Mador and Rhys came from Powis and Wales,
Unshorn was their hair and unpruned were their nails;
From Strath-Clyde was Ewain, and Ewain was lame,
And the red-bearded Donald from Galloway came.

Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchbacked from youth;
Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth;
But Adolf of Bambrough, Northumberland's heir,
Was gay and was gallant, was young and was fair.

There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for each one would have
For husband King Adolf, the gallant and brave;
And envy bred hate, and hate urged them to blows,
When the firm earth was cleft and the Arch-fiend arose!

He swore to the maidens their wish to fulfil—
They swore to the foe they would work by his will.
A spindle and distaff to each hath he given,
‘Now hearken my spell,’ said the Outcast of heaven.
‘Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight hour,
And for every spindle shall rise a tower,
Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong shall have power,
And there shall ye dwell with your paramour.’

Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on the wold,
And the rhymes which they chanted must never be told;
And as the black wool from the distaff they sped,
With blood from their bosom they moistened the thread.

As light danced the spindles beneath the cold gleam,
The castle arose like the birth of a dream—
The seven towers ascended like mist from the ground,
Seven portals defend them, seven ditches surround.

Within that dread castle seven monarchs were wed,
But six of the seven ere the morning lay dead;
With their eyes all on fire and their daggers all red,
Seven damsels surround the Northumbrian's bed.

‘Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have done,
Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath won,
Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do,
Or the bed of the seventh shall be husbandless too.’

Well chanced it that Adolf the night when he wed
Had confessed and had sained him e'er boune to his bed;
He sprung from the couch and his broadsword he drew,
And there the seven daughters of Urien he slew.

The gate of the castle he bolted and sealed,
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown and a shield;
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended his way,
And died in his cloister an anchorite gray.

Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stowed,
The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven and toad.
Whoever shall guesten these chambers within,
From curfew till matins, that treasure shall win.

Bat manhood grows faint as the world waxes old!
There lives not in Britain a champion so bold,
So dauntless of heart and so prudent of brain,
As to dare the adventure that treasure to gain.

The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with the rye,
Before the rude Scots shall Northumberland fly,
And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt in the sun,
Before that adventure be perilled and won.

XV

‘And is this my probation?’ wild Harold he said,
‘Within a lone castle to press a lone bed?—
Good even, my lord bishop,—Saint Cuthbert to borrow,
The Castle of Seven Shields receives me to-morrow.’