Classic Poem

I

 Gray towers of Durham! there was once a time
 I viewed your battlements with such vague hope
 As brightens life in its first dawning prime;
 Not that e'en then came within fancy's scope
 A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope;
 Yet, gazing on the venerable hall,
 Her flattering dreams would in perspective ope
 Some reverend room, some prebendary's stall,—
And thus Hope me deceived as she deceiveth all.

 Well yet I love thy mixed and massive piles,
 Half church of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot,
 And long to roam these venerable aisles,
 With records stored of deeds long since forgot;
 There might I share my Surtees' happier lot,
 Who leaves at will his patrimonial field
 To ransack every crypt and hallowed spot,
 And from oblivion rend the spoils they yield,
Restoring priestly chant and clang of knightly shield.

 Vain is the wish—since other cares demand
 Each vacant hour, and in another clime;
 But still that northern harp invites my hand
 Which tells the wonder of thine earlier time;
 And fain its numbers would I now command
 To paint the beauties of that dawning fair
 When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand
 Upon the western heights of Beaurepaire,
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by winding Wear.

II

 Fair on the half-seen streams the sunbeams danced,
 Betraying it beneath the woodland bank,
 And fair between the Gothic turrets glanced
 Broad lights, and shadows fell on front and flank,
 Where tower and buttress rose in martial rank,
 And girdled in the massive donjon keep,
 And from their circuit pealed o'er bush and bank
 The matin bell with summons long and deep,
And echo answered still with long-resounding sweep.

III

The morning mists rose from the ground,
Each merry bird awakened round
 As if in revelry;
Afar the bagle's clanging sound
Called to the chase the lagging hound;
 The gale breathed soft and free,
And seemed to linger on its way
To catch fresh odors from the spray,
And waved it in its wanton play
 So light and gamesomely.
The scenes which morning beams reveal,
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel
In all their fragrance round him steal,
It melted Harold's heart of steel,
And, hardly wotting why,
He doffed his helmet's gloomy pride
And hung it on a tree beside,
 Laid mace and falchion by,
And on the greensward sate him down
And from his dark habitual frown
 Relaxed his rugged brow—
Whoever hath the doubtful task
From that stern Dane a boon to ask
 Were wise to ask it now.

IV

His place beside young Gunnar took
And marked his master's softening look,
And in his eye's dark mirror spied
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside,
And cautious watched the fittest tide
 To speak a warning word.
So when the torrent's billows shrink,
The timid pilgrim on the brink
Waits long to see them wave and sink
 Ere he dare brave the ford,
And often after doubtful pause
His step advances or withdraws;
Fearful to move the slumbering ire
Of his stern lord, thus stood the squire
 Till Harold raised his eye,
That glanced as when athwart the shroud
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud
 The bursting sunbeams fly.

V

‘Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde,
Offspring of prophetess and bard!
Take harp and greet this lovely prime
With some high strain of Runic rhyme,
Strong, deep, and powerful! Peal it round
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound,
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay
Of bird and bugle bail the day.
Such was my grandsire Eric's sport
When dawn gleamed on his martial court.
Heymar the Scald with harp's high sound
Summoned the chiefs who slept around;
Couched on the spoils of wolf and bear,
They roused like lions from their lair,
Then rushed in emulation forth
To enhance the glories of the north.—
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race,
Where is thy shadowy resting-place?
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaffed
From foeman's skull metheglin draught,
Or wanderest where thy cairn was piled
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild?
Or have the milder Christians given
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven?
Where'er thou art, to thee are known
Our toils endured, our trophies won,
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes.’
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose.

VI

SONG

‘Hawk and osprey screamed for joy
O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy,
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread,
The heath was dyed with darker red,
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son,
Dane and Northman piled the stone,
Singing wild the war-song stern,
“Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn!”

‘Where eddying currents foam and boil
By Bersa's burgh and Græmsay's isle,
The seaman sees a martial form
Half-mingled with the mist and storm.
In anxious awe he bears away
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay,
And murmurs from the bounding stern,
“Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn!”

‘What cares disturb the mighty dead?
Each honored rite was duly paid;
No daring hand thy helm unlaced,
Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee placed;
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned:
Without, with hostile blood 't was stained;
Within, 't was lined with moss and fern,—
Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn!

‘He may not rest: from realms afar
Comes voice of battle and of war,
Of conquest wrought with bloody hand
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand,
When Odin's warlike son could daunt
The turbaned race of Termagaunt.’

VII

‘Peace,’ said the knight, ‘the noble Scald
Our warlike fathers' deeds recalled,
But never strove to soothe the son
With tales of what himself had done.
At Odin's board the bard sits high
Whose harp ne'er stooped to flattery,
But highest he whose daring lay
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say.’
With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed
His master's looks and nought replied—
But well that smile his master led
To construe what he left unsaid.
‘Is it to me, thou timid youth,
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth!
My soul no more thy censure grieves
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves.
Say on—and yet—beware the rude
And wild distemper of my blood;
Loath were I that mine ire should wrong
The youth that bore my shield so long,
And who, in service constant still,
Though weak in frame, art strong in will.’—
‘O!’ quoth the page, ‘even there depends
My counsel—there my warning tends—
Oft seems as of my master's breast
Some demon were the sudden guest;
Then at the first misconstrued word
His hand is on the mace and sword,
From her firm seat his wisdom driven,
His life to countless dangers given.
O, would that Gunnar could suffice
To be the fiend's last sacrifice,
So that, when glutted with my gore,
He fled and tempted thee no more!’

VIII

Then waved his hand and shook his head
The impatient Dane while thus he said:
‘Profane not, youth—it is not thine
To judge the spirit of our line—
The bold Berserkar's rage divine,
Through whose inspiring deeds are wrought
Past human strength and human thought.
When full upon his gloomy soul
The champion feels the influence roll,
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall—
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall—
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes
Singly against a host of foes;
Their spears he holds like withered reeds,
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds;
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive,
Take countless wounds and yet survive.
Then rush the eagles to his cry
Of slaughter and of victory,—
And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl,
Deep drinks his sword,—deep drinks his soul;
And all that meet him in his ire
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire;
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den
And couches till he 's man agen.—
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb
When 'gins that rage to overbrim—
Thou know'st when I am moved and why;
And when thou see'st me roll mine eye,
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute;
But else speak boldly out whate'er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour;—
So Christian monks are wont to say
Demons of old were charmed away;
Then fear not I will rashly deem
Ill of thy speech, whate'er the theme.’

IX

As down some strait in doubt and dread
The watchful pilot drops the lead,
And, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,
The page his master's brow observed,
Pausing at intervals to fling
His hand on the melodious string,
And to his moody breast apply
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song conveyed the rest.—

SONG

‘Ill fares the bark with tackle riven,
And ill when on the breakers driven,—
Ill when the storm-sprite shrieks in air,
And the scared mermaid tears her hair;
But worse when on her helm the hand
Of some false traitor holds command.

‘Ill fares the fainting palmer, placed
Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste,—
Ill when the scorching sun is high,
And the expected font is dry,—
Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath,
The barbarous Copt, has planned his death.

‘Ill fares the knight with buckler cleft,
And ill when of his helm bereft,—
Ill when his steed to earth is flung,
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung;
But worse, of instant ruin token,
When he lists rede by woman spoken.’—

X

‘How now, fond boy?—Canst thou think ill,’
Said Harold, ‘of fair Metelill?’

‘She may be fair,’ the page replied
 As through the strings he ranged,—
‘She may be fair; but yet,’ he cried,
 And then the strain he changed,—

SONG

‘She may be fair,’ he sang, ‘but yet
 Far fairer have I seen
Than she, for all her locks of jet
 And eyes so dark and sheen.
Were I a Danish knight in arms,
 As one day I may be,
My heart should own no foreign charms—
 A Danish maid for me!

‘I love my father's northern land,
 Where the dark pine-trees grow,
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand
 Looks o'er each grassy oe.
I love to mark the lingering sun,
 From Denmark loath to go,
And leaving on the billows bright,
To cheer the short-lived summer night,
 A path of ruddy glow.

‘But most the northern maid I love,
 With breast like Denmark's snow
And form as fair as Denmark's pine,
Who loves with purple heath to twine
 Her locks of sunny glow;
And sweetly blend that shade of gold
 With the cheek's rosy hue,
And Faith might for her mirror hold
 That eye of matchless blue.

‘'T is hers the manly sports to love
 That southern maidens fear,
To bend the bow by stream and grove,
 And lift the hunter's spear.
She can her chosen champion's flight
 With eye undazzled see,
Clasp him victorious from the strife,
Or on his corpse yield up her life,—
 A Danish maid for me!’

XI

Then smiled the Dane: ‘Thou canst so well,
The virtues of our maidens tell,
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 gray eye is a flame
Art cannot hide nor fear can tame.—
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honored footsteps sought,
And twice returned with such ill rede
As sent thee on some desperate deed.’

XII

‘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.