University of Virginia Library

4. PART FOURTH.

Oh fain would I borrow the harp of that land,
Where the dark sullen eagle broods over the strand,
Afar in his correi where shrub never grew;
Or mounts on bold pinion away from the view,
On beams of the morning to journey alone,
And peal his loud matin where echoes are none—
The harp of that region of storm and of calm,
To mount with the eagle, or sport with the lamb;
To warble in sunshine, in discord to jar,
And roar in the tempest of nature or war!
Of that have I need, and but that I'll have none,
To sound the memorial of old Beregon.
The city is crowded, each alley and hall;
Loud rattles the scabbard on pavement and wall.
The bow and broad arrow of Scythia are there,
And files of bright lances gleam high in the air;
They flash and they flicker, so dazzling and high,
Like streamers of steel on the fields of the sky;
But nigher survey them, how deep is their stain!
That redness is not with the drops of the rain;
Proud badges of battle, depart they must never,
But there as memorials fester for ever.
Our clans and the Norsemen nor beckon nor smile.
As file meets with column, and column with file;
Yet still there was bustle by night and by day,
And ne'er were the maids of green Albyn so gay:
But many a sad mother to Heaven appeals;
And from the old warior the groan often steals,
As from his high turrets he sees with despair
The black Bull of Norway pawing the air.
Queen Hynde waits the issue, submissive and dumb,
And noble King Eric with love is o'ercome.
King Eric came over, a conqueror proved;
A kingdom he wanted, a kingdom beloved:
The queen was an item he did not imply,
But the conqueror fell at the glance of her eye.
His proffer was made as a lure to the land,
For woman he loved not nor woman's command:
The name of a hero was all his delight;
His sword was a meteor unmatch'd in the fight;
The north he had conquer'd, and govern'd the whole
From Dwina's dark flood to the waves of the pole;
And ne'er in his course had he vanquished been,
Till now, by a young Caledonian queen.
But thou, gentle maiden, to whom I appeal,
Who never has felt what thou could'st not conceal—
Love's dearest remembrance, that brought with the sigh
The stound to the heart, and the tear to the eye—
O, ill canst thou judge of the mighty turmoil
In the warrior's bosom, thus caught in the toil!
For the queen kept the words of her father in view,
Who charged that, in secret no lover should sue;
And therefore bold Eric was still kept at bay,
For all his impatience and all he could say:
And this was her answer both early and late,
“The time is at hand that determines my fate:
Then he whose arm in battle is strongest,
Whose shield is broadest, or falchion longest,
And twice in the lists shall win the day,
I am his to claim and carry away.
But till that day all suit is vain—
In strict retirement I remain.”
Ah princely Haco, woe for thee!
What hopest thou round these towers to see,
Which still thou circlest morn and even,
With cheek and eye upturn'd to heaven;
Or rather, to each casement high
In Selma's towers, for answering eye?
And thou hast seen it, though at more
Than fifty fathoms from the shore:
And who can eye of maiden fair
Read more than half way up the air?
The glance of love, the blushing hue,
Are lost amid the hazy blue:
But other signs—As, snowy veil
Rear'd high aloft like streamer pale;
A helmet waved in queenly hand;
A dazzling glance from gilded brand,
Whose point is northward turned away,
Where Eric's camp like city lay,—
These signals boded nothing good,
And scarce could be misunderstood.
A thousand times Prince Haco bow'd,
And humblest gratitude avow'd;
He kiss'd his hand, then kneel'd profound,
And thrust his sword's point in the ground,
In homage to that virgin queen,
For such he deem'd capricious Wene;
And she it was. But what she knew,
That thus such signals out she threw,
Or if 'twas all a freakish jest,
Nor friend nor foeman ever wist.
But as it was, it gave the alarm
Unto the prince to watch and arm.
His was a brave and goodly train,
The pride of Norway's stormy reign;
All youths on fame and honour bent,
And all of noble, proud descent,
Who the high heir of Eric's crown,
As path to fortune and renown,
Had follow'd with supreme good-will,
Claiming the post of honour still;
And, sooth, a comelier warrior train
Ne'er mounted wave of northern main.
To these he said, in secret guise,
With looks profound and shrewdly wise,
“I dread these coward Scots for ill;
There has been bustling on that hill,
As if some treachery were design'd,
Or some misprision in the wind:
Scouts have been running up and down,
From town to camp, from camp to town.
(For an encampment, strong and high,
The Scots had form'd on Valon-Righ.)
“'Tis meet that we should arm and watch,
Such violators first to catch,
If such there be. If I am wrong,
Our silent watch will not be long;
While, should we baulk some foul surprise,
Our fame to Odin's throne will rise.”—
His warriors armed with youthful pride,
But laugh'd full mirthfully aside;
And wondered where their gallant prince
Caught such enormous sapience.
Meantime the troops of various climes
Met in the city lanes betimes,
And there they crowded, trading, bustling,
Till eventide, full rudely justling.
They met, they scowl'd—then rushing, mingled,
While their rude weapons jarr'd and jingled.
Few words were changed for ill or good;
For why? They were not understood:
But many brazen looks said plain,
“Friend, you and I may meet again!”
In short, throughout each Highland clan
A spirit most indignant ran.
They could not brook their foes to see
Parade their streets unawed and free;
And from their cliff-borne camp they view'd
The march of these barbarians rude
Beneath their feet from day to day,
Like tigers growling o'er their prey.
Nor wanted there the chiefs among
Some fiery heads that, right or wrong,
Would blow this breeze into a storm.
First of these chiefs was Donald Gorm,
Whose spirit, like the waves that roar
For ever on his stormy shore,
Was ne'er at ease by night or day,
But restless and perturbed as they.
Among the clansmen of his name,
Revenge was his perpetual theme,
Until so fierce his fury burn'd,
His sovereign's faith aside was spurn'd;
And, if to join him there was none,
He'd break the truce and fight alone!
“We'll go,” said Donald, “in the night,
And seize this king of boasted might;
And first we'll bind him heel to head,
And bear him to our rock with speed;
And then we'll turn, and kill, and kill,
And spoil and ravage at our will!
That cumbrous host we well may dread,
With doughty Eric at its head;
But, rend that moving spring away,
And down it falls the spoiler's prey.
What boots it me a maiden's vow,
Vouchsafed I see not why, nor how?
If Donald this achievement grand
Performs by dint of shield and brand,
He reigns the King of fair Scotland!”—
“God bless the mark!” said every tongue,
And every sword on buckler rung.
King Eric's camp was scanned with care,
For sundry spies went sauntering there;
But so it happ'd that Haco's tent
Surpass'd the king's in ornament.
The prince's proud battalions lay
Round his with streamers soaring gay,
And golden crests, and herald show;
So that the spies went to and fro,
Staring aghast; then back they sped,
And, with sagacity inbred,
Declared, and swore, with gaping wonder,
That all the kings of the earth were yonder!
This was a prize, we may suppose,
Too rich for Donald Gorm to lose:
So straight was pass'd the order high,
That all the men of Mull and Skye,
And Moidart too, themselves should dight
In arms at dead hour of the night,
And follow where their chief should lead,
To enterprise of glorious meed.
The harp had ceased in Selma's hall,
And from her towers and turrets tall
No glimmering torch or taper shone—
For they had died out one by one,
Like fading stars, whose time was spent
Above the airy firmament.
Many a bard on Valon-Righ
Had sung his song of victory,
And gone to rest—or converse hold
With spirits of the bards of old.
The cymbal's clang, the bugle's swell,
The trumpet's blare, the bagpipe's yell,
Had ceased, and silence reign'd alone
Around the skirts of Beregon,
Where thousands lay, stretch'd on the soil,
Panting for battle and for broil.
But Donald Gorm had other scheme
Than thus on battle clang to dream:
He panted for the waking fight,
The blood and havoc of the night;
The silent rush on prostrate foe;
The stroke, the stab, the overthrow;
Their mortal terror, flight, and thrall,
And captive king—the best of all!
A thousand times, with grin and growl,
Did Donald curse the minstrel's howl;
Then roll'd him on his russet floor,
And railed against the lagging hour.
For every minute in its flight,
From evening till the noon of night,
Was fetter laid on Donald's might.
The hour arrived, as hour must come
To those that dread it for their doom,
As well as those who for it long—
And Donald's men, in phalanx strong,
Moved from the cliff around the steep
With swiftness and in silence deep.
Then Haco's watcher by the tarn
Straight hasted back, his prince to warn;
And found him and his troop prepared,
Couch'd on their arms, and keeping guard,
Hid in the heather and the brake,
Alongst the road the Scots must take.
Down came the Skye-men like a torrent,
Foaming, and muttering terms abhorrent;
Furious they came, with whirl and crush,
As midnight tides through narrows rush;
Or, when the storm is at the sorest,
Like wild bulls rushing from the forest,
With grinding hoof, and clattering horn,
And hollow humming as in scorn;
So rushed this phalanx multiform,
Led by the headlong Donald Gorm.
The front bore on swift as the wind,
But Haco's gallants closed behind;
And Donald's rear was levell'd low,
As fast as blow could follow blow.
His front pour'd on from tent to tent,
And robb'd and romaged as they went;
While those behind, without a blow,
Were chased and routed by the foe.
Right over ditch, and foss, and fen,
Was Donald borne by his own men;
For all his boast of warrior deed,
He ne'er got blow at foeman's head.
O Donald Gorm, hard fate is thine,
Exposed to punishment condign!
The truce is broke, and thou hast lost
One-fifth of all thy gallant host.
The daring deed thou canst not hide;
Thy kinsmen vanish'd from thy side,
And shame imprinted on thy brow—
Ha! Donald Gorm, what think'st thou now?
To-morrow all will be in flame,
And only thou must bear the blame;
For thou hast dared thy country's troth,
Thy sovereign's honour, and her oath,
Thus rashly, rudely, to deface;
And all for nought but deep disgrace.
Over thy head there broods a storm
Will blast thy honours, Donald Gorm!
But one thing yet thou dost not know:
Thou hadst to deal with generous foe,
Who sorrow'd at thy rash ado—
A hero, and a lover too;
Who dared not this thy deed proclaim,
Lest royal Hynde should bear the blame.
When past was all the hasty fray,
And Donald Gorm thus chased away;
And not one son of Norway miss'd,
Excepting Odin's sacred priest,
Whom Donald's men had caught asleep,
And hurried off unto the steep—
They deem'd him chief of high command,
Some ancient lord of Scania's band;—
When fled, I say, that headlong force,
Prince Haco call'd his counsellors.
“My gallant friends,” said he, “I must
Rejoice to find in whom I trust.
This night you've shown, with courage true,
What youths of noble blood can do,—
Have saved our sovereign's sacred life,
And crush'd at once a dangerous strife.
Now, trust me, we'll more credit win
By hushing this with little din,
Than, by ostent and fulsome boast,
To break the truce with Albyn's host,
And lose at once the glorious right
Of gaining all by heroes' might.
By secret trust full well I know
The treachery bred with private foe,
That gave us chance thus to debel.—
This thing I know, but dare not tell.
“Then let us strip these savage slain,
And sink their bodies in the main;
And pass the whole with answer brief,
As enterprise of robber chief—
A trivial thing, of no regard,
Unsuiting honours or reward.”—
Each gallant thought as Haco did,
Although his motives still were hid.
The slain were heap'd upon a team,
And in the sea, to sink or swim,
Their bodies hurl'd without delay;
And all was o'er by break of day.
Then such a stir arose at dawn—
Torrents of blood like rivers ran;
But none could tell with whom the blame,
Or whence the purple deluge came.
Amazement fill'd the Norway men;
They gather'd round in thousands ten,
Until the king all patience lost,
And call'd a muster of his host;
No one was miss'd in all the lists,
Save one of Odin's sacred priests!
King Eric, as a monarch brave,
Of priestcraft was the very slave.
This omen dire his soul oppress'd;
He caught the terror of the rest,
And orders gave, in sullen mood,
For sacrifice of human blood.
Haco was grieved; for in that rite
He had no trust—took no delight;
And therefore told all that had pass'd
Unto the king, from first to last;
But chiefly dwelt on signal seen
From casement of the Scottish queen.
Now hush'd were Eric's false alarms:
He caught his nephew in his arms;
For his big heart impetuous strove
With throes of glory and of love;
And thrice he bless'd his hero young,
Who thus withheld the blabbing tongue
From telling of a deed of fame
That added lustre to his name;
Then said, “No favour he could crave,
That, as reward, he should not have.”
The prince of this laid hold, and said,
“My king and uncle, then I plead,
That I to-morrow be allow'd
The honour and distinction proud,
Within the lists with thee to stand,
A champion for my native land.
And thou in Haco's deeds shalt trace
The might of Odin's heavenly race.”
The king now frown'd in sullen mood,
Nor tried his promise to elude.
Generous, as absolute in sway,
And downright as the light of day,
He all at once, in terms uncouth,
Reproved the madness of the youth:—
“Thou tendril of a rampant plant!
Darest thou to ask, or I to grant,
A thing that throws from my right hand
The glory of my native land?
What would my well-tried champions say,
Were I to fling such prize away,
And all our soaring hopes destroy,
For the wild frenzy of a boy?
Thy rash, fond aim full well I see—
Thou think'st the choice will fall on thee.
Dare not to raise such lofty looks;
Eric but ill a rival brooks;
And thus to sacrifice his all,
He may not, and he never shall.”
“My liege, I had your sacred word,
Given fully, of your own accord;
I ween'd on that I might rely:
Can Odin's son his troth deny?
I claim it; and to-morrow stand,
To win or fall at thy right hand.
Thy word is given; if broke it be,
By Thor, the breaker fights with me!”
“Haco, thou art a noble stem,
That well should brook the diadem.
My sacred word I must fulfil,
Though grievously against my will.
By one rash promise I am cross'd,
And all my fame in battle lost.
How dare I in myself confide
With such a stripling by my side?
For should'st thou fall, or wounded be,
Farewell to Eric's victory!
But at the hour the heralds name,
Come, and the post of honour claim
As right of thy illustrious line:—
My word is pass'd, and it is thine.”
Turn we to Donald of the Isle,
In sad dilemma placed the while;
To censure subject for th' abuse
Of sovereign's faith, and broken truce.
He kept his place in outer ward,
To fight with friend or foe prepared;
And much he wonder'd when he saw
The armies mix, as if no flaw
Or breach of contract had been known:
Still Donald kept his hold alone,
Till Eric's muster-roll was o'er,
And freedom reign'd as theretofore.
“'Tis strange,” said Donald, “should this breach
And foul defeat the throne not reach.
It would appear there is no blame
Attach'd to queen's or liegeman's name.
Therefore I judge it best at once
The daring outrage to renounce;
And prove it, swear it though they should,
Deny it all through fire and blood.”
“Dear master, know, your gallant men
Amid King Eric's camp lie slain.”
“There let them lie; I'll flatly swear
They are not mine, nor ever were.”
“Your clan is short: what will you say,
When call'd out on a muster-day?”
“I'll say, the men of Mull are gone
To fetch supplies of venison;
To see their dames, and shun the strife;
And all have forfeited their life.”
“The priest of Odin, in our thrall,
Will broad disclosure make of all.”
“Were he the devil's priest array'd,
One whom I more than Odin dread,
I'd let him blood, and make his bed
Full fifty feet below my tread,
Rather than he should blab disgrace
On great M'Ola's royal race.
My fathers had one liberal form,
Which stands unbroke by Donald Gorm—
It is, that neither old nor young.
Nor oath pronounced by human tongue,
Shall e'er a rest or bearing find
Between his honour and the wind.
Come, and the secret thou shalt know,
How the old dotard brooks the blow.”
The chief and bard together went
In to the priest, with foul intent:
The old man rested on the floor,
With lip of scorn, and look demure:
His ankles were by withe entwined;
His arms were cross'd and bound behind;
His grisly beard seem'd scarce terrene—
It flow'd, like Centaur's shaggy mane,
Far o'er his girdle crimosin,
And quiver'd to his palsied chin.
A portrait of majestic scorn
Was that old heathen priest forlorn,
With eye fix'd on his galling yoke,
And leaning calmly to the rock.
“Father, full froward was the fate,
That cast thee in this captive state,”
Said Donald, with affected grief;
“But here comes one to bring relief:
Since mighty Odin hides his face,
And there's no other eye of grace,
This boon thy Odin sends to thee—
A thirsty brand to set thee free!”
“Beware, thou sanguine, savage chief,
Slave to a new and fond belief!—
Beware how thou upliftest sword,
Or utter'st rash or ruthless word,
Against the lowest holy guide
To Odin's service sanctified.
Know'st thou who measures mortal age?
Who love's the battle's lofty rage
And riots mid the overthrow,
In wreaking vengeance on each foe?
Even He, whose servant for his sin
Lies chain'd thy hateful power within.
Then be thou ware, the crime eschew,
Nor do a deed thou sore shalt rue.”
“Speak, Rimmon, bard of Turim's hall;
What think'st thou of this heathen's fall?”
“Thou lord of that romantic land,
The winged isle, of steep and strand;
And all the creeks of brake and fern,
Those pathless piles, so dark and dern,
That stretch from Sunart's sombre dell,
To Duich's heights of moor and fell;
Thou stem of royal seed—nay, more,
Son of an hundred kings of yore!
Unto thy servant deign regard;
Woe to the chief that slights his bard!
“I've heard an adage in my time,
A simple old Milesian rhyme,
Which bore, that, whatsoever god
Was worshipp'd all the world abroad,
From him that reigns in heaven alone,
Unto the gods of wood and stone—
That, still among each erring crew,
These gods should have a reverence due;
Because, in offering insult there,
A nation's feelings injured are;
And man's deep curse, when insults move
His sacred feelings to disprove,
Is next to that of God's above.
I say no more; but that I've found
These ancient sayings often sound.”
Donald look'd down with dark grimace,
And primm'd his mouth, and held his peace;
And rather seem'd disposed to show
Relenting heart o'er prostrate foe.
But as imprudence in th' extreme,
Or dire mischance (a gentler name),
Suggested, the old priest began
To brave the spirit of the man;
And his o'erbearing pride defy,
By brief and threatening prophecy.
“'Tis known,” said he, “o'er all the lands
Where Odin's heavenly sway expands,
That whosoever dares enthrall
The meanest guide unto his hall,
Or move a tongue his faith to upbraid,
Or hand against his sacred head,
That sinner's blood shall first be spilt
Of all his kindred's, for his guilt.
Therefore I dare the whole decrees
Of those who bow to oaken trees;
Or to the dazzling God of Day;
Or moon, that climbs the Milky Way;
Or to that God, mysterious, mild,
That died and lived, the Virgin's child—
I dare you all by curse unheard,
To wrong a hair of this gray beard;
Or down to Lok the caitiff goes,
The first of Odin's fated foes.”
“So be the offence and the reward!
Thou speak'st to one that ne'er was dared,”
Said Donald, as he rose amain,
Trembling with anger and disdain;
And ere his bard a word could say
His master's vengeance to allay,
Cursing and foaming in his rage,
Sheer to the belt he clove the sage:
To either side one half did bow;
His head and breast were cleft in two;
An eye was left on either cheek,
And half a tongue, to see, and speak.
Oh, never was so vile a blow,
Or such a bloody wreck of woe!
Old Rimmon bow'd upon his knee;
And, that such sight he might not see,
Shaded his eyes with his right hand,
And pour'd forth coronach so grand,
O'er the old stranger's mournful fate
That Donald Gorm became sedate;
And soften'd was his frown severe,
To stern regret and sorrow drear.
But his stout heart not to belie,
He dash'd the round tear from his eye;
Then turn'd, and wiped his bloody glaive
And bade to dig the heathen's grave
Far in the bowels of the hill,
And with huge rocks the crevice fill,
That forth he might not win at all,
To blab in Odin's heavenly hall:
For, sooth, whate'er was doom'd to be,
He would that boisterous deity
Might lay his bloody guerdons by
For those who own'd his sovereignty.
Sore trembled Turim's ancient bard,
For the rash deed his lord had dared;
And, the transgression to redeem,
Sung a most solemn requiem.
Of Donald's nightly overthrow
No note was taken by the foe;
For, yielding to the generous prince,
King Eric slyly blink'd the offence.
Those strangers both were sway'd by love;
And hoped before the queen to prove
Their heroism, and matchless might,
And claim unto her hand by right.
But either mighty Odin heard
His dying servant's last award,
Or some all-seeing righteous eye
Beheld the ancient father die.
To Eric's tent that night were call'd,
Priest, prophet, patriarch, and scald;
And thence were heard, in thundering jar,
Loud anthems to the god of war;
And when the orisons were said,
And victims on the altar laid,
And rose the frenzy to the full,
With cup drunk from an enemy's skull;
Then blood was dash'd on all around,
As text, or omen, to expound;
And that, survey'd with much grimace,
Boded success to Odin's race.
Again the frenzied song of war
On the night breeze was borne afar,
Till, on the dark and gelid rock,
The drowsy cormorant awoke,
And, moved by wonder and dismay,
Scream'd out in concert with the lay.
Some sentinels that hovered nigh,
On the north cliff of Valon-Righ,
Descended softly to the plain,
And overheard the closing strain;
And thus it ran, the roundelay,
As near as Scottish tongue could say:—

Song.

The combat-day arrived at last,
And with it congregations vast
Of maidens, youths, and aged men,
From isle, from dale, and Highland glen;
All panting, burning, to survey
The deeds of that eventful day.
And every group, disputing, came,
Who were the warriors first in fame:
For every clan avow'd its head
Unmatch'd in might and warrior deed—
One 'gainst a world to throw the gage,
The master spirit of the age.
Full plain it was to eye and ear,
That chose to see, and chose to hear,
That no three lords the land could call,
Would satisfaction give to all.
That morning rose in ruddy hue
So bright, that all the fields of dew,
The gleaming mountains, and the wood,
Appear'd one mighty waste of blood;
Even the slow billow of the main
Appear'd to heave and roll in pain—
A clammy, viscous, purple tide,
That murmur'd to the mountain side,
And broke, with harsh and heavy groan,
Upon the beach of Beregon.
The sages look'd with wistful eye
Upon the flush'd and frowning sky;
Then, on the purpled earth and sea,
And sigh'd a prayer internally.
But scarcely had the morning's prime
Flamed o'er the mountain's top sublime,
Ere sable shades began to spread,
And mingle with the murky red;
The sun glared through a curtain gray
With broaden'd face and blunted ray;
And short way had he left the rath
Upon his high and gloomy path,
Till nought appear'd to human sight
But a small speck of watery light,
That seem'd above the rack to fly,
Careering through a troubled sky.
Dark and more dark the morning frown'd;
At length the shadows closed around,
Until the noontide of the day
Look'd like a twilight in dismay.
'Twas like that interval of gloom
'Twixt death and everlasting doom,
When the lorn spirit, reft away
From its frail tenement of clay,
Is forced through wastes of night to roam,
In search of an eternal home—
That space of terror, hope, and dole,
The awful twilight of the soul.
Alas! what earthly anxiousness
Resembles such a pause as this?
But mortal tremor and alarm,
For the success of foeman's arm,
And for the congregating gloom,
That almost threaten'd nature's doom,
Were never moved to wilder scope
Than on that day of fear and hope.
In Eric's council was no flaw,
His will was rule, his word was law;
But in the Scottish camp there grew
A furious general interview.
There was no lord, nor chief of name,
Who put not in conclusive claim,
As his the right the brand to wield
Upon the glorious combat-field.
After great heat, in proud deport,
With stern arraignment and retort,
Resource or remedy was none,
But that of casting lots alone;
A base alternative, 'twas true,
But that, or battle, nought would do.
The lots were cast with proper form,
And fell on Mar, and Donald Gorm,
And Allan Bane, of wide command,
The goodliest knight in fair Scotland.
Mar's name was called throughout the crowd;
The men of Dee hurra'd aloud;
But those of Athol and Argyle
Look'd to the earth, with hem and smile;
While Moray lads, with envy stung,
Cursed in a broad unfashion'd tongue.
Brave Donald Gorm was not proclaim'd.
Gods, how the men of Morven flamed!
And those of Rannoch and Loch-Ow
Pull'd the blue bonnet o'er the brow,
And mutter'd words of scorn and hate,
Lamenting Albyn's hapless fate;
While through the clans of Ross there pass'd
A murmur like the mountain blast.
Each neighbouring clan was moved to scorn,
That such a chance from it was torn
Of royal sway, and warrior boast,
And given to those they hated most.
While distant tribes forbore to foam,
Pleased that it came no nigher home.
But when the name of Allan Bane,
Lochaber's calm and mighty thane,
Was call'd, there was no grumbling sound,
Nor aught but plaudits floated round.
The gather'd thousands seem'd to feel,
That Heaven had chosen for their weal;
For lord was none, in sway or fame,
In all the land, of equal name.
The ring was form'd above the bay,
Where Eric's ships incumbent lay;
Its circle measured furlongs ten,
One half inclosed by Norway men,
While all the Scots rank'd on the lea,
Between the city gate and sea;
And 'twixt the hosts, from east to west,
Strong ramparts, lined with guards, were placed.
The seven towers of Beregon
Were clothed and crowded every one.
High soaring o'er the sordid strife,
Unmeasured piles of mortal life,
Breathing, and moving frown'd they there,
Like cloudy pyramids of air.
Both friends and foemen turn'd their eyes
To these pilasters of the skies,
And almost ween'd the living towers,
The altars of the heavenly powers;
The tabernacles of the skies,
Where angels offered sacrifice,
With victims heap'd of shadowy forms
Above the pathway of the storms,
Up render'd from some dread abode,
The foes of men and foes of God;
And there piled for some dire cremation,
Some final, horrid immolation.
The whole of that momentous scene
Was such, as on this earth again
The eye of man can never see,
On this side of eternity.
The various nations arm'd and filed;
The thousands round on summits piled,
Of rock, of ravelin, and mast;
The sky with darkness overcast;
And when the trumpet's rending blare
Bade champions to their posts repair,
Ten times ten thousand panting breasts
Were quaking, yearning, o'er the lists;
Ten thousand hearts with ardour burn'd;
Ten thousand eyes were upward turn'd,
Trying to pierce the fields of air;
But there was nought but darkness there!
What could they do but mutter vow,
And turn their eyes again below?
King Eric and his champions twain
Enter'd the lists the first; and then
Appear'd the Scottish heroes three,
Arm'd and accoutred gallantly.
But when they met to measure swords,
And change salute in courteous words,
From the Scots files there rose a groan;
For far, in stature and in bone,
The Norse excell'd; so far indeed
That theirs appear'd of pigmy breed.
The heroes measured sword and shield,
Then to their various stations wheel'd;
And just when ready to begin,
Prince Haco sprung like lightning in,
Kneel'd to the king, and made demand
To fight that day at his right hand,
As his the right by heritage.
The champions boded Eric's rage,
And gazed at Haco. But anon
King Eric bade the knight begone
From his right hand, with kingly grace,
And the young hero took his place.
A mighty clamour rent the air,
And shook the loaded atmosphere;
He was, forsooth, a comely sight,
In golden armour burnish'd bright,
And raiment white, all glittering sheen
With gems of purple and of green.
With face so fair and form so tall,
So courteous, and so young withal,
He seem'd, amid the multitude,
Like sun-beam through a darksome cloud.
Among the shouts that scaled the shower,
A shriek was heard from Selma's tower.
Far upward Haco turn'd his eye,
And saw, far in the hollow sky,
A female form of radiant white
Upheld, and fainting with affright;
But soon she waved a snowy veil:
The prince's cheek grew red, then pale;
And with rash hand, and streaming eye,
He heaved his golden helmet high.
King Eric gave him stern reproof,
And warn'd him to his post aloof;
But his fond heart, with burning glow,
Was roused to more than man might do;
He trod on air; he grasp'd at fame;
His sword a meteor seem'd of flame.
The king was match'd with lordly Mar;
And Allan Bane with Osnagar,
A Dane of most gigantic form;
And the brave prince with Donald Gorm.
The marshals walk'd the circle round,
Survey'd the lists and vantage ground,
Then raised a signal over head,
The baleful flag of bloody red.
The trumpet sounded once; and then
Bugle and tabor roll'd amain
O'er all the host with rending swell;
Till slumbering echoes caught the knell,
And, calling to the mountain side,
Proclaim'd the combat far and wide.
The trumpet gave the second boom;
Again the clamour rent the gloom!
It gave the third: no murmur ran;
No sound moved by the breath of man
O'er all that collied, countless throng;
For trembling feelings, fierce, and strong,
Oppress'd them all. Blench'd was each cheek,
And lip, that moved, but durst not speak.
The triple combat then began;
That instant man was match'd to man;
And at that very moment flew
From out the cloud the lightning blue;
The thunder follow'd, and the hail
Came like a torrent with the peal,
Straight in the faces of the three
Who fought for Albyn's liberty.
The priests and scalds of Scania raised
The stormy hymn, and Odin praised;
But Albyn's thousands, blinded quite
With hail, and sleet, and glancing light,
To covert fled in dire dismay,
Trembling and faltering by the way;
All ignorant of what befell,
And asking news which none could tell.
But not the wrath of angry heaven,
The storm with tenfold fury driven,
The forked flames, with flash and quiver,
The thunder that made earth to shiver,
Could daunt the courage of the brave,
Who fought for glory or the grave.
No stately marshal was allow'd,
Nor umpire, verging from the crowd,
To meddle with the mortal strife;
Each hero fought for death or life.
Few words on either side were spoke,
To daunt opponent or provoke;
For why? the storm so fiercely jarr'd,
They neither could be said nor heard.
Their weapons met with clanging blows,
And high from helm and buckler rose.
Mar lost his ground, as Eric press'd;
But calmly still the king regress'd;
With foe before, and foe behind,
To quit his line he had no mind,
And vantage of the rain and wind.
'Tween Osnagar and Allan Bane
The fight was dreadful. But the Dane,
With every vantage of the field,
Eluded Allan's oval shield,
And pierced his shoulder to the bone,
Reddening his arm and hacqueton.
This roused the Scottish hero so,
That back he bore his giant foe;
And it was plain to every eye,
Though few there were that could espy,
That Albyn, in her Allan Bane,
Would suffer no dishonest stain.
Ha! mighty Donald of the main,
Why flagg'st thou on the battle-plain?
Why is thy bronzied cheek aghast,
And thy fierce visage overcast?
Can thunder's roar, or fire, or storm,
Appal the heart of Donald Gorm,
Who, till this hour, at danger spurn'd,
Whose sword in battle ne'er was turn'd?
No; but there had been boding sight,
Some dreadful visitant o'ernight!
And now the hero powerless seem'd,
And fought as if he slept and dream'd.
When Haco first met eye to eye
With the impetuous Lord of Skye,
One thought alone possess'd the host;
Even Eric deem'd his nephew lost,
And only kept proud Mar at bay,
To watch the issue of the day.
Haco strode up with giddy pace,
And shook his brand in Donald's face.
The day had shortly been, forsooth,
If such a fair and flexile youth
Had shook a gilded sword or spear
At that imperious islander—
Heavens! how the tempest's howling breath
Had heighten'd been by Donald's wrath;
Whereas he now to battle fared,
As if he neither saw nor heard.
Haco made play, and join'd, and sprung
From side to side, like galliard young.
Now on his golden shield he clang'd;
Now on his foeman's buckler bang'd;
Now back, now forward would he fly,
In hopes to catch a royal eye.
But all the feints he could perform
Were lost on drowsy Donald Gorm;
Though life and death were laid in stake,
He held his guard as scarce awake.
The prince grew reckless and surprised,
Thinking his foeman him despised;
And, pressing down that sluggish brand,
He closed with Donald hand to hand.
Then did a furious course ensue,
Of push and parry, hack and hew;
Until the prince, in sidelong bound,
Gave Donald's thigh a ghastly wound.
Then burst the chief's inherent ire
Forth like the blaze of smother'd fire.
Alas! 'twas bravery's parting qualm,
The rending blast before the calm;
The last swoln billow in the bay,
When winds have turn'd another way.
“Curse on thy wanton slight!” he cried,
“Thou gossip for a maiden's side!
And curse upon the wizard charm,
That thus hath chain'd M'Ola's arm,
Whose pristine might and majesty
Were framed to punish ten like thee!
Here's to thy foppish heart abhorr'd!
Ward, if thou may'st, this noble sword.
Hence to thy ghostly charlatan,
And bear him back his curse and ban;
And say, that I'll requite it well,
In whate'er place he dares to dwell—
In earth, in cloud, in heaven or hell!”
Thus saying, Donald forward flung,
And at the prince his weapon swung
With back and forward sweep amain;
But only fought the wind and rain,
Or thing invisible to man.
He toil'd, he wheel'd, and forward ran;
But not one stroke, for all his fume,
So much as levell'd Haco's plume,
Or downward on his buckler rang,
Or made his golden helmet clang:
His rage seem'd madness in th' extreme—
The struggle of a frenzied dream.
The prince kept guard, but smiled to see
The wildness of his enemy;
At length, with flourish, and with spring
Forward, like falcon on the wing,
He pierced the raving maniac's side:
Forth well'd the warm and purple tide;
And, like an oak before the storm,
Down crash'd the might of Donald Gorm.
A shout from Norway's files too well
Proclaim'd the loss Scot dared not tell.
“True son of Odin!” Eric cried,
And rush'd on Mar with madden'd stride.
“Presumptuous lord! What thing art thou
That comest King Eric's ire to brow?
Would that I had (if such there be)
A score of Scottish lords like thee!
With dint of this good sword of mine,
I'd heap them all on Odin's shrine!”—
So saying, at one dreadful blow,
He shear'd the warrior's helm in two,
With lightning's force.—The Scottish lord
Lies prostrate o'er his bloodless sword.
By this time giant Osnagar
Was from his station borne afar;
And sore by Allan Bane oppress'd,
Heaved like the sea his ample chest;
His hand unto his weapon clave—
Scarce could he wield that weighty glaive.
He in his targe to trust began,
For blood o'er all his armour ran;
And, as he wore from side to side,
Most bitterly to Odin cried.
One other minute in the strife,
And Osnagar had yielded life;
But to that goal when Allan press'd,
Two other swords met at his breast.—
“Yield!” cried King Eric, “yield, or fall!”—
“I never did, and never shall!”
The chief replied.—But Eric's arm
Waved back his friends from further harm.
“Most generous king, I will not yield,
Nor living quit the combat-field:
Come one, come all, this arm to try—
Here do I stand, to win or die.
Shall it be told on Lochy's side,
That Allan Bane for rescue cried?”
King Eric smiled, and made reply:
“Thou bear'st thyself most gallantly;
We're three to one, and doubly strong;
But none shall gallant foeman wrong:
Then yield thee to a king this day,
Whose sword in battle ne'er gave way.”
“For once it shall!” bold Allan cried,
And made a blow at Eric's side.—
“Hurra!” cried Eric joyfully;
“I'll trust this wight with none but me.
Keep all aloof, both friend and foe,
Till we two change a single blow.
His wayward will he needs must have,
Though he is one I fain would save.”
Clash went the swords, the bucklers clash'd,
And 'gainst each other soon were dash'd;
But short the strife, ere Allan Bane
Lay stunn'd upon the slippery plain,
Bereft of buckler and of brand,
But without wound from Eric's hand.
He was no more in Eric's clasp
Than leopard in the lion's grasp.
The king upraised the wondering thane,
With soothing words and smiling mien;
Returned his sword, and, as a charm,
Bound golden bracelet round his arm;
Then, in a bold, impatient strain,
These words address'd to Allan Bane:—
“Thou art as stout and stanch a knight
As ever braved our northern might;
But know thou this (and when thou dost,
Thou know'st it to thy nation's cost),
In youth, before this beard was brown,
Or only waved a golden down,
I, from a child to battle bred,
Was forth to single combat led;
Before my eighteenth year, I say
Had clothed this chin, which now is gray,
Within the lists I had to fight
For life, before my father's sight.
I won, and of applause was vain.
I've fought a thousand times since then;
In southern climes have laurels won
Beyond the seasons and the sun;
I've journey'd all the world around,
Wherever fame was to be found;
Have fought with Frank and Turcoman,
With prince, with vizier, and with khan;
And though their painim creed I spurn'd,
This sword was ne'er in combat turn'd.
“The seventh day we fight again,
In triple combat, on the plain;
But as well may you challenge then
Great Odin, prince of gods and men,
Or brave that liquid fiery levin,
Red streaming from the forge of heaven,
Trying its power to countercharm,
As brave the force of Eric's arm.
“This tell the nobles of your land;
And say, I make sincere demand
Of them, ere more deray is done,
To yield the queen. I have her won.
I flinch not from my royal seal:
It is in friendship I appeal.
But should they wish again to just,
And in the second combat trust,
'Tis well; then henceforth I must claim
The guardship of the royal dame.
They have but choice 'twixt bad and worse;
I claim but what I'll take perforce.
One hour I wait return discreet—
The next I do as I think meet.”
By that time Mar had breathed his last,
And Donald Gorm was nearing fast
The bourne of all the human race;
Yet, in his stern and rugged face,
There seem'd no terror, wrath, or teen,
Save at some being all unseen.
When Haco raised him to his knee,
He look'd aside most movingly,
And to the wind these words address'd—
He saw nought but the slaughter'd priest!—
“Ay, thou may'st stand, and smile, and beck,
With thy half head on half a neck;
M'Ola soon shall be with thee,
His sworn and subtile enemy.
Thou basilisk of burning spheres!
Thou, and thy hellish, damn'd compeers,
With dreams and visions of dismay,
And terrors of a future day—
With dreadful darkness, fire, and storm,
At last have vanquished Donald Gorm!
But some shall rue, since so it be:
Go to, go to—I'll be with thee.”
The hero turn'd his beamless eye
Toward the grisly peaks of Skye:
Some thought unfathomed seemed to hover
His dark departing spirit over—
Of roaming on his mountain wind,
Swifter than hawk or dappled hind:
Of stag-hound's bay and bugles swelling,
And answering echoes bravely yelling;
But all was one distorted scene,
The vision of a soul in pain,
That trembled, neither bound nor free,
'Twixt time and immortality.
With that wild look it fled for ever,
From hollow groan, and rigid shiver—
From clenched hand, and writhing brow—
Eternal God!—What is it now?