The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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| 6. | PART SIXTH. |
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
6. PART SIXTH.
No Muse was ever invoked by me,But an uncouth harp of olden key;
And with her have I ranged the Border green,
The Grampians stern, and the starry sheen;
With my gray plaid flapping around the strings,
And ragged coat, with its waving wings;
Yet aye my heart beat light and high
When an air of heaven, in passing by,
Breathed on the mellow chords; and then
I knew it was no earthly strain,
But note of wild mysterious kind,
From some blest land of unbodied mind.
But whence it flew—or whether it came
From the sounding rock or the solar beam,
Or tuneful angels passing away
O'er the bridge of the sky in the showery day,
When the cloudy curtain pervaded the east,
And the sunbeam kiss'd its humid breast—
In vain I look'd to the cloud overhead;
To the echoing mountain dark and dread;
To the sun-fawn fleet, or aerial bow—
I knew not whence were the strains till now.
They were from thee, thou radiant dame,
O'er fancy's region that reign'st supreme;
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And of everlasting new delight,
Of foible, of freak, of gambol, and glee;
Of all that pleases,
And all that teazes,
All that we fret at, yet love to see
In petulance, pity, and love refined,
Thou emblem extreme of the female mind!
Oh come to my bower here deep in the dell,
Thou queen of the land 'twixt heaven and hell;
Even now thou seest, and smilest to see,
A shepherd kneel on the sward to thee:
But sure thou wilt come with thy gleesome train,
To assist in his last and lingering strain.
Oh come from thy halls of the emerald bright,
Thy bowers of the green and the mellow light,
That shrink from the blaze of the summer noon,
And ope to the light of the modest moon.
Oh well I know the enchanting mien
Of my loved muse, my Fairy Queen!
Her rokely of green, with its sparry hue,
Its warp of the moonbeam and weft of the dew;
Her smile, where a thousand witcheries play.
And her eye, that steals the soul away;
The strains that tell they were never mundane;
And the bells of her palfrey's flowing mane;
For oft have I heard their tinklings light,
And oft have I seen her at noon of the night,
With her beauteous elves in the pale moonlight.
Then, thou who raised'st old Edmund's lay
Above the strains of the olden day;
And waked'st the bard of Avon's theme
To the visions of his midnight dream—
Yea, even the harp that rang abroad
Through all the paradise of God,
And the sons of the morning with it drew,
By thee was remodell'd, and strung anew—
Oh come on thy path of the starry ray,
Thou queen of the land of the gloaming gray,
And the dawning's mild and pallid hue,
From thy valleys beyond the land of the dew,
The realm of a thousand gilded domes,
The richest region that fancy roams!
I have sought for thee in the blue hare-bell,
And deep in the fox-glove's silken cell;
For I fear'd thou hadst drunk of its potion deep,
And the breeze of the world had rock'd thee asleep;
Then into the wild-rose I cast mine eye,
And trembled because the prickles were nigh,
And deem'd the specks on its foliage green
Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen,
Then gazing, wonder'd if blood might be
In an immortal thing like thee.
I have open'd the woodbine's velvet vest,
And sought the hyacinth's virgin breast;
Then anxious lain on the dewy lea,
And look'd to a twinkling star for thee,
That nightly mounted the orient sheen,
Streaming in purple and glowing in green;
And thought, as I eyed its changing sphere,
My Fairy Queen might sojourn there.
Then would I sigh and turn me around,
And lay my ear to the hollow ground,
To the little air-springs of central birth
That bring low murmurs out of the earth;
And there would I listen, in breathless way,
Till I heard the worm creep through the clay,
And the little blackamoor pioneer
A-grubbing his way in darkness drear:
Nought cheer'd me on which the daylight shone,
For the children of darkness moved alone.
Yet neither in field nor in flowery heath,
In heaven above nor in earth beneath,
In star, nor in moon, nor in midnight wind,
His elfish queen could her minstrel find.
But now I have found thee, thou vagrant thing,
Though where I neither dare say nor sing!
For it was in a home so passing fair,
That an angel of light might have linger'd there:
I found thee playing thy freakish spell
Where the sun never shone, and the rain never fell,
Where the ruddy cheek of youth ne'er lay,
And never was kiss'd by the breeze of day;
It was sweet as the woodland breeze of even,
And pure as the star of the western heaven,
As fair as the dawn of the sunny east,
And soft as the down of the solan's breast.
Yes, now have I found thee, and thee will keep,
Though thy spirits yell on the midnight steep;
Though the earth should quake when nature is still,
And the thunders growl in the breast of the hill;
Though the moon should frown through a pall of gray,
And the stars fling blood on the Milky Way;
Since now I have found thee, I'll hold thee fast,
Till thou garnish my song—it is the last!
Sing of the dreary gloom that hung
Clouding the brows of old and young
Through all the Scandinavian host,
And on the monarch press'd the most,
Who was of direful dreams the prey;
Some bodings of an olden day,
That told of trouble and of teen,
Of late fulfill'd had darkly been;
Foil'd by a hind before his host,
His consecrated armour lost,
That held a charm he valued more
Than aught his ample kingdom bore.
His scowl bespoke his heart's dismay,
And bore with it decisive sway;
For when in temper he was cross'd,
His was the mood of all the host.
Captain pass'd brother captain by,
Paused, beckon'd, waiting some reply;
But there was none, save look that spoke
Of direful deed; no hint was broke;
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Foreboded tumult, reif, and blood.
Well did they bode; the order flew;
King Eric out his legions drew,
Ranging his grim and hardy files
Around old Selma's stately piles.
In armour bright he walk'd alone
Before his host, and bade lead on
To force the Connel and the Croy,
To waste, to ravage, and destroy,
With fire and sword, and foray keen,
And none to save but Albyn's queen.
Then waked his trumpet's brazen throat,
With such a copious rending note,
That rocks and doons began to pant;
The gray and solid adamant
Travail'd in anguish with the noise,
With the first throes of thunder voice,
And issued sounds that shook the spheres,
And silence of a thousand years.
Short was the march along the coast,
Till, lo, a herald met the host!
The same that first its rage appeased
Now came to have his bond released;
Scotland's apostle there once more
Opposed King Eric on the shore.
The king at first in high disdain
Answer'd the sage, and scarce would deign
Exchange of speech; but such a grace
Shone in Columba's saintly face,
That Eric calm'd, and stay'd his van
To listen to the reverend man.
“Sire, I was call'd to distant shore,
Which caused the breach we all deplore;
On God's own mission forth I went,
To save this Christian throne intent:
My purpose fail'd, but then, as now,
I trusted Heaven, and must avow
Our nobles' fraud. Fearful, I ween,
Of parting with their youthful queen,
They have done that which monarch must
Declare right generous, though unjust;
They knew not Eric's honour high,
And now regret it grievously,
But must be pardon'd. List then me—
You've fought and conquer'd three to three;
But still your victory is not won,
Nor can be, ere to-morrow's sun
See Albyn's champions once more beat,
And then we yield us to our fate.
Our queen, with Scotia's coronet,
Shall on the combat field be set,
And whoso wins shall wear that crown,
And claim the maiden as his own:
She cannot wed all three, 'tis true,
But to her choice the three must bow.”
The king grinn'd in derision proud,
And shook his beard, and said aloud—
“Thou say'st? Then, shall my champions be
Men not endow'd to cope with me
In maiden's love? Of monstrous form,
I've plenty, thanks to clime and storm,
That are, for all their spurious brood,
A match for aught of Albyn's blood.
But, carping wizard as thou art!
Com'st thou again to act a part
Of wheedling fraud, to chant and chime,
And gain a blink of loathsome time?
To practise some unholy scheme,
Some low and servile stratagem?
I say it boldly to thy face—
There is no chief of Albyn's race
Dares for his soul presume to stand
And brave again this deadly brand
Thou know'st it, churl, as well as I.
Vile Christian! I thy power defy!
Thee and thy gods I hold as dust,
And in this arm and Odin's trust.”
“Say'st thou we dare not, sire? why then
Came I thus forth from Scotia's queen
These words to say? Hath she, as thou,
Swerved from her holy plighted vow,
And, without warning or pretence,
In savage stormy insolence,
Broke on thy ranks with havoc red?
No! such is not the Christian's creed.
Thou'rt the aggressor—doubly so:
This thou hast done, and, ere I go,
I'll say, if 'twere my latest breath,
Thou dar'st not fight and keep thy faith!”
“Worm! reptile! dolt! What dost thou say,
Thou clod of cold presumptuous clay?
Dares such a being, sear'd and knurl'd,
Beard Eric of the northern world,
Whose arm has quench'd the Saxon's light,
And broke the German's iron might;
The Pole and Paynim overrun,
And beat the blue and bloody Hun?
Dar'st thou, in name of Christian cur,
Or virgin young, these honours blur?
He tells thee once again, and swears
By Odin's self, who sees and hears
This lifted hand, and solemn vow,
He'll fight your champions brow to brow:
And if none dares his arm withstand,
He'll fight the best two of your land.
Chiefs, kinsmen, sheathe your swords to-day
In peace, and measure back the way
Straight to the camp. If Odin speed,
To-morrow sees your sovereign's head
Circled by Albyn's ancient crown,
And honours of supreme renown!”
Columba bow'd as it behoved,
But smiled to see the monarch moved
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Which scarce to reason seem'd allied;
And as he gazed in Eric's face,
Some thoughts like these his mind did trace:—
“I've touch'd the proper peg that winds
That high-toned string of mortal minds
Up to the height! Oh, God of Life!
Why mad'st thou man a thing of strife,
Of pride, and lust, of power so high
That scarcely quails beneath the sky!
Yet a poor pin, a scratch, a thrust
Can bring his honours to the dust,
And lay the haughty godlike form
A fellow to the crawling worm!
I've sped; but thou alone can'st know
Whether I've sped for weal or woe;
O thou To-Morrow! who can see
What joy or sorrow waits on thee!”
The seer retired, but quickly stay'd,
And turning short, to Eric said—
“Sire, I request, before I go,
From thy own lips this thing to know—
Where be the maidens that were sent
As hostages unto thy tent?
For they were noble maids each one:
Then say, without evasion,
Where they are now, for words are said
Which tend thy honour to upbraid,
And manhood too. Then pr'ythee, tell,
Where be the maids we love so well?”
Eric look'd grave; his towering pride
'Gan in a moment to subside;
His speech sunk to a hollow calm,
And his pale lip bespoke a qualm
Of conscience, whilst these words he spoke:
“By all the gods, and dreadful Lok,
I know not—dare not hint a dread
Into what clime their fate is sped;
They are where they are call'd to be
By the Great King of Heaven's decree!”
“Sire, I have nothing from this speech,
Vague as the voice on ocean's beach,
Of sounding billow bursting in
With harsh unmodulated din:
If thou hast dared such foul offence
As injure virgin innocence,
The curse of Heaven be on thy head!
Hence be thy valour pall'd in dread,
And all thy pomp and power decay—”
“Withhold thy dread anathema,”
King Eric cried; “I'd rather brave
The rage of Albyn's winter wave;
Her tempests wild, her headlands stern;
Her friths so crooked, dark, and dern;
Her nation's force in rear and van,
Than the vile curse of Christian man!
“Bring forth these champions of your land,
That mine may meet them brand to brand:
I dare them; if that will not do,
I'll fight the cravens one to two:
Thou hast my answer—speed thee hence
And for thy nation's best defence
Be thou prepared; for if the queen
To grace the combat is not seen,
I swear by Odin's warlike name,
And Thor's, the god of storm and flame,
No lists shall be, nor warrior boast;
I'll pour my vengeance on your host,
And neither leave you root nor stem,
Memorial, name, nor diadem.”
Columba raised his hand on high,
About to make sublime reply;
But Eric to his trumpets' blare
Wheel'd off, and left the father there,
Like statue raised by wizard charm,
With open mouth—with out-stretched arm—
Forehead uplifted to the sky,
And beard projecting potently.
There stood the seer, with breath drawn in,
And features bended to begin;
But, lo! ere he a word could say,
The king had wheel'd and sped away!
The sire relax'd his form the while,
His features softening to a smile;
And back he strode in thoughtfulness,
To tell the queen of his success.
He found her deck'd in youthful pride,
And blithesome as a maiden bride,
Resolved to trust her royal right
Unto her doughty kinsmen's might.
Despite of all her lords could say,
Who urged her from the lists to stay,
She vow'd the combat she should see,
And trust to Heaven's ascendency.
Columba's prayers and counsels wise
Had from despondence clear'd her eyes;
While something he had said or done,
Unto all living else unknown,
Had raised her hopes to such a height,
They almost had outrun the right;
For aught her court could see or deem,
They were even forward in the extreme.
No matter! Hynde felt no annoy,
But of the combat talk'd with joy;
And of the manner she would greet
King Eric kneeling at her feet,
Or raise the chief that should him slay
Unto her throne that self-same day.
These rash resolves could not be lost
To any part of Albyn's host;
For all were summon'd to appear
That dared to stand the test severe;
While highest honours were decreed
To those whose valour should succeed
In saving Albyn's rights and laws;
That highest, most momentous cause
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Or sovereign hero's aid besought.
The evening came, and still no knight
Had proffer'd life for Scotia's right.
The morning rose in shroud of gray,
That usher'd in the pregnant day,
Big with the germs of future fame,
Of Albyn's glory or her shame;
And still no champion made demand
Of fighting for his sovereign's hand!
Just as the morn began to shower
Its radiance on Dunstaffnage tower,
Queen Hynde, array'd in robes of state,
Descended by the southern gate,
With face that own'd no hid distress,
But smiled in angel loveliness;
And there, amid the assembled crowd,
A herald thus proclaim'd aloud:
“Here stands our virgin queen alone,
The sole support of Albyn's throne,
Craving the aid of hero's might,
To guard her and her sacred right.
If any here dares wield a sword
'Gainst Scandinavia's sovereign lord,
Or champions of his giant band,
Let such approach our sovereign's hand,
And tender here his envied claim,
That so enroll'd may be his name;
And Scotia's banners may not fly
O'er lists where none dares for her die;
The right, and left, and post between,
Must fall by lot—God save the Queen!”
Still there was none that forward press'd;
Then first Queen Hynde's wan looks confess'd
An inward pang allied to fear,
A disappointment hard to bear;
Till Saint Columba by her side,
With locks of silver waving wide,
And spread hands quivering in the air,
Thus to the heavens preferr'd his prayer:
“O thou Almighty One, whose throne
O'erlooks Eternity alone!
Who once, in deep humility,
Lay cradled on a virgin's knee,
Turn here thine eyes on one whose face
Bespeaks the virtues of her race—
Who in this time of dire alarm
Puts not her trust in human arm,
But in thy mercy and thy truth;—
Then, oh! in pity to her youth,
Preserve her to her native land;
Save the dear maid of thy right hand,
And rouse up heroes that may quell
The pride of braggart infidel.
“Yes, thou wilt grant thy aid divine
To those who stand for thee and thine;
Wilt steel their hearts and guard their heads,
Till of their high and glorious deeds
Their everlasting rocks shall ring,
And bards unborn their honours sing.”
Then bow'd the saint his brow serene,
And tens of thousands said—Amen!
The bugle's note and herald's voice
Proffer'd again the exalted choice
To every youth of noble mind,
To chief, to yeoman, and to hind,
Of fighting in his country's name,
For royalty and deathless fame:
Then up came courteous Sutherland,
And, kneeling, kiss'd his sovereign's hand,
Proffer'd his arm, his sword, his life,
To combat in the glorious strife;
Saying, he delay'd the honour dear,
In hopes that better would appear:
Then drew his lot, and fell the right,
To fight with Eric's left-hand knight.
Red Gaul of Ross came up the next,
And said these words with voice perplex'd:—
“My beauteous liege, I stood aloof,
In hopes some lord of more approof
Would eagerly rush forth to throw
The gauntlet to our reckless foe;
But, as I am, for Albyn's good
I dedicate my sword and blood.”
“I know full well, my generous lord,
No braver chief e'er drew a sword,”
The queen replied. “To such as thee
I well can trust my throne and me.
Now to the test, the final lot,
Whether you fight the king or not.”—
He drew the left, and thereupon
To fight King Eric there was none.
From Hynde's dark eye, that glisten'd clear,
Was seen to drop the briny tear;
While yet a soften'd smile of pain,
Like sunbeam through the morning rain,
Unto her lords seem'd to confess
Their want of noble generousness.
Still good Columba cheer'd her on,
And bade her trust in Christ alone,
Who could his sacred pledge redeem
Even in their last and great extreme.
But time there was no more to say,
The boats were gather'd in the bay,
And the decisive hour drew near
When Hynde must in the lists appear.
On board she went in joyless mood:
An hundred barges plough'd the flood;
While many a bold and warlike strain
Of music peal'd along the main,
That seem'd to say, in daring tone,
“Here comes the Queen of Caledon!
Who dares her royal rights gainsay?
Hie, braggarts, to your wastes away,
For, fume and banter as you will,
Old Albyn shall be Albyn still!”
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Between man's heart and outward mien!
It was a gorgeous sight that day,
When Hynde arrived in Keila Bay,
On high above her maidens borne,
Like radiant streamer of the morn;
A ray of pure and heavenly light,
Shining in gold and diamonds bright:
A lovelier thing of human frame
From armies never drew acclaim,
Or look'd more queenly and serene,
As, heaving o'er the billow's mane,
An hundred barges her behind
Came rippling on before the wind;
And, as they sunk the waves between,
Seem'd paying homage to their queen.
Such freight ne'er sail'd on western sea;
A thousand dames of high degree,
With lords and gallants many a one,
Came with the Queen of Caledon.
The lists were framed and fenced around
With palisades on level ground;
And these again were lined the while
With warriors, rank'd in triple file.
Upon the east was raised a throne,
Where Hynde in all her beauty shone;
And dames unnumber'd, on each side,
Shone o'er the lists in blooming pride;
Their tartans streaming, row on row,
Bright as the tints of heavenly bow.
Sure 'twas a fair and goodly view!
Even Eric's dull and swarthy crew,
Whose minds had been bred up in broil,
Inured to blood and battle toil,
Acknowledged beauty's power supreme,
By looks of wonder's last extreme.
There one with half a glance might spy
The gaping mouth and gazing eye,
The turgid blink, the scowl askance,
The sterile stare, the amorous glance;
The thousand looks that utterance found
In language mightier than in sound.
Ah, Beauty! but for woman's mien
And form, thy name had never been!
When all the wonted forms were past,
The judges' rules, the warning blast,
King Eric and his champions twain
Enter'd the lists the first again;
And there, in daring martial pride,
Walk'd round the ring with stately stride.
Brave Sutherland appear'd at length,
And Gaul, a burly mass of strength,
Gnarl'd and misshaped from toe to chin;
But, ah! the soul, that frame within,
Was pure, and brave, and calm, and just—
A pearl amid a coil of dust.
There was a pause; the champions eyed
Each other well, and talk'd aside;
Queen Hynde grew wan as winter snows,
Then ruddy as the damask rose,
As far she cast her humid eye,
O'er serried thousands crowding nigh;
But none rush'd in—(O hour of shame!)
To save his queen from foreign claim.
'Twas said, the bugle blasts between
Columba's lips were moving seen,
And his dim eyes to Heaven up-cast,
As that dumb prayer had been his last.
Oh read not dumb! What speech can feign
The language of a soul in pain?
That prayer, though made in deep distress,
Was not by creature succourless;
For, beaming from his faded eye,
There shot a ray of hope on high.
First to the queen King Eric kneel'd:
Then to the judges of the field
He turn'd, and said, “'Tis past the hour;
I claim my mistress and her dower.
Produce three champions of your land,
Or give my bride into my hand.
The pledge is forfeited. Think'st thou
We three will shed the blood of two?
No, by the gods!—But I alone
Shall fight that couple one by one;
Grant this, and I by it abide;
If not, then bring me forth my bride;
Or, by yon heaven, and burning hell,
And all that in both regions dwell,
In carnage red I'll pen a law,
Such as your nation never saw!”
“Hold, sire!” cried one of Scottish blood,
“This hasty challenge is not good;
The hour's not sped by half at least;
The shadow falls not to the east.
Yon arched oriel casement mark;
When its armorial rim grows dark,
The hour is past; till then 'tis meet
That thou should'st wait in mode discreet,
Since Albyn's hero's bold intent
Is thwarted by some strange event;
So it would seem: remain awhile,
Till once the shadow from the pile
Falls eastward; then, with woeful heart,
Old Albyn from her queen must part.”
To Selma's tower looked one and all;
The sunbeam stray'd aslant the wall,
In scatter'd fragments, pointed bright,
Though scarce one hundredth part was light;
But still the casement's carved frame
Shone with a bright and yellow flame.
Each Scottish eye, as by a charm,
Fixed on that tower in wild alarm,
Till every little gilded mark
Vanish'd amid the shadow dark;
Save that the casement's arch alone
With dim and fading lustre shone.
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Is verging thence—the prize is won!
Columba rose, but not alone,
To lead the queen down from the throne,
And give her to the imperious hand
Of the oppressor of the land:
The tears stream'd o'er her pallid cheek.
She look'd abroad, but could not speak.
Then many a stifled groan was heard,
From breasts that were but ill prepared
To yield their queen to such a fate;
Ten thousand swords were drawn too late;
One moment, and the prize is won—
'Tis past.—The will of God be done!
What gathering shout is that begun?
Toward the lists it seems to run!
It heightens, gains, and swells around;
The skies are shaken with the sound,
While dancing swords and plumes give way,
Bespeaking tumult or deray.
Queen Hynde in middle step stood still,
Her sponsors paused with right good-will,
And Eric stepp'd aside to see
What meant that loud temerity.
That moment through the lists there sprung
A warrior, stalwart, lithe, and young,
Cover'd with foam and ocean brine,
And blood upon his brigantine;
Then pointing to the oriel frame,
That still was tinged with fading flame,
He cried, “Behold all is not lost!
I make appeal to Eric's host.”
“No! to himself thou shalt appeal,
To him who never yet did fail
On such request to yield a foe,
Or friend, or kinsman blow for blow!”
King Eric said: “Here's fame for thee
To win. Thou art the man for me
To match! for rarely have I seen
A comelier warrior tread the green!
Woe's me, for such a blooming spray
Which I must level with the clay!”
“Yes, I'm for thee!” that warrior said,
And threw away his belted plaid;
And lo! his panoply was braced
With belts of gold, and interlaced
With many a fringe and mottled hem,
Where lurk'd the ruby's burning gem.
Such princely champion ne'er before
Had gauntlet thrown on Albyn's shore!
Out through the host a whisper ran,
Which said he was no earthly man,
But angel sent from God on high,
To help in great extremity.
Others there were, who said he bore
Semblance to Haco, now no more;
So lithe, so brisk, so void of fear,
So brilliant in his warlike gear.
A ray of hope, like wildfire's gleam,
From maidens' eyes began to beam;
But in the eye of warrior grim
That ray of hope was deadly dim.
Ah! how could youth, whate'er his worth,
Excel great Eric of the north,
Whose arm had spread, through human kind,
Dismay before and death behind?
Forthwith the deadly strife began;
Clash went the weapons, man to man.
Harold of Elle, a Danish knight,
Was match'd with Gaul, on Eric's right;
And Hildemor, from Bothnia's strand,
Was match'd with seemly Sutherland;
Gigantic heroes, bred to strife,
And combat yearly for their life.
In that fierce onset to the fray
There was no flout nor giving way;
To work they fell, with blow and thrust,
And strokes that shore the level dust
From shields descending. Then, anon,
Flickering in air their weapons shone,
With crossing clang so fierce and high,
As if the javelins of the sky,
The livid lightnings, at their speed,
Had met and quiver'd o'er each head.
But soon both wings, as with assent,
Paused, and stood still, to gaze intent
On the tremendous strife that grew,
'Twixt Eric and his foeman new.
Such rabid rage on combat field,
No human eye had e'er beheld;
They tried to wound, but ne'er below,
Round, round they battled, toe to toe,
But not one inch would either flee;
They fought on foot—they fought on knee—
Against each other fiercely flung;
They clang'd, they grappled, and they swung,
They fought e'en stretch'd upon the green,
Though streams of blood ran them between.
Thou ne'er hast seen the combat grand
Of two wild steeds of southern land,
Rivals in love: how grows their rage,
And shakes the fen when they engage;
Or two wild bulls of bison brood,
The milk-white sovereigns of the wood—
And the dire echoes that outyell
The grovelling, bellowing sounds of hell:
To view these savages aloof,
Rending the ground with horn and hoof,
Or meet to gore, and foam, and die,
Is scarce a sight for maiden's eye.
Or two huge monsters of the wave
Rearing their forms, with lash and lave,
Far up the air; their snort and howl—
Then, grappling, sink with groan and growl,
While the red ocean boils ahight,
And nature sickens at the sight,
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When thou first err'd, and peace gave way;
Yes, such dread scenes have often been,
Though such thine eye hath never seen;
And if thou hadst, as nought they were
Unto the mortal combat there,
Where heroes toiled in deadly strife,
For love, for empire, and for life.
It was as if two Alpine hills,
Lords of a thousand rocks and rills,
And sovereigns of the cloudy clime,
Had once in battle join'd sublime;
Together dash'd their mighty heads,
Those gray and grisly pyramids,
The footstools to the gates of heaven:
Think of them shatter'd, torn, and riven,
And down the shrieking steeps beneath,
Red rolling o'er a waste of death.
Such was the strife, while every heart
Around them bore a trembling part.
Ah! many an eye was dimm'd of sight,
When, in the terrors of their might,
They saw the heroes grappling fast,
And deem'd each struggle was the last;
But no! They seem'd two beings framed
Not to be wounded, foil'd, or maim'd.
Three times they closed within the shield;
Twice roll'd they down upon the field;
But then, 'gainst Eric was the odds,
They heard him cursing by his gods!
And when they parted for a space,
A wildness glared in Eric's face;—
A haggard rage not to be told,
A something dreadful to behold.
'Twas as if spirit from the earth,
Proud of its righteousness and worth,
Had hurried to the gates on high,
Passing poor pensive journeyers by;
But lo! when at the gates above,
The paradise of peace and love,
He finds all entrance there denied,
And the poor ghost is thrust aside;
Barr'd from the presence of his God,
And banish'd to some drear abode,
In darkness and in chains to lie
Through ages of eternity.
Think of that spirit's woeful case,
The lines of his deploring face,
And livid hues 'twixt black and wan,
And think of Eric if you can!
This dread expression was not miss'd
By the eye of his antagonist,
Who, without wooing strength or breath,
Rushed in for victory or death.
But Eric still withstood his shock;
He fought, a tower, a strength, a rock,
That ne'er had bowed unto the blast,
And knew no yielding till the last.
At length their motions grew more slow,
Their swords fell lighter every blow;
And all perceiv'd they near'd the last,
And the bitterness of death was past:
On swords that bent and stream'd with blood,
They lean'd, and stagger'd as they stood;
Yet grimly levell'd eye to eye,
And not one inch would either fly.
The conflict's o'er—wild tremor reigns,
And stillness for a space remains.
King Eric was the first that fell:
Down like a tower with groan and knell
The prince of heroes falls supine!
A shudder pass'd through Norway's line,
Yet none durst enter in the list,
Although upon the monarch's breast
The foot of conquering foe was set,
And sword upraised in vengeful threat,
His royal head and trunk to sever,
And close his conquests up for ever.
None interfered, nor call'd it crime,
Such were the statutes of the time.
But fate withheld the stroke design'd,
For, like the willow in the wind,
The conqueror's plume began to bow,
And nod and totter to and fro;
Then back he stagger'd on the field,
Low bending o'er his sword and shield;
And ere his panting breath was gone,
He reach'd the rail and lean'd thereon;
Then hands were stretch'd (why should they not?)
That loosed his gorget from his throat;
His helm and corslet they untie,
And all his belted panoply;
And though no mortal wound they saw,
The blood oozed through at every flaw.
The following short translation from an ancient Runic ode, was handed me by a correspondent, as probably relating to the death of this northern hero:—
“Before Berigholmi did we fight with swords. We held bloody shields, and well-stained spears. Thick around the shores lay the scattered dead. There saw I thousands lie dead by the ships. We sailed seven days to the battle in which our army fell.
“We fought again; and then the bow uttered a twanging sound, sending forth tempests of glittering steel. It was at the time of the evening the foe was compelled to fly. The King of Erin did not act the part of the eagle—he fell by the bay. He was given for a feast to the ravens. A great storm descended. O ye sons of the fallen warriors! who among you shall tell of the issue of that dreadful day? The gods were angry, and before their vengeance who shall stand? There Eric fell, than whom there was no greater king. The sword dropped from his hand—the lofty helmet was laid low—the birds of prey bewailed him who prepared their banquets.”
Still gazing on the deadly feud,
Now, without languor or remark,
Flew to the combat stern and stark:
When, strange to tell! the lord of Ross.
The warrior shapeless, gnarl'd, and gross,
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That round and round upon the plain
He made him shift and shun the strife,
Then fairly turn and fly for life.
Gaul follow'd; but as well he might
Have chased the red deer on the height,
As his tall enemy, that strode
Slow round the field with taunt and nod;
Gaul waddling after, sword in hand,
Puffing, and cursing him to stand;
Loud rang the shouts around the pale,
And laughter gibber'd on the gale.
On the other hand the strife was sore
'Twixt Sutherland and Hildemor;
It was a combat to be seen,
If premier combat had not been,
To which all others, when compared,
Sunk into things of no regard.
Keen was the strife—the Scot gave way.
Either in need or galliard play;
And, as he wore across the field,
They reach'd a spot of blood congeal'd,
Where, as the Swede rush'd on his foe,
He slid, and stumbled with the blow;
When Sutherland, with ready slight,
Met in his fall the hapless wight,
And pierced the corslet and the core
Of the redoubted Hildemor:
He roll'd in blood, and aptly tried
To stem the red and rushing tide;
Then feebly at his foeman struck,
And cursed his gods for his misluck:
The accents gurgled in his throat—
Still moved the tongue, but speech was not;
And, with a spurn and hideous growl,
Out fled the giant's murky soul.
Now, two to one, the flying Dane
In gnashing terror scower'd the plain;
His king and his companion gone,
A madness seized the knight upon;
He tried to leap the circling piles,
For shelter 'mid the Danish files,
But was repulsed with fierce disdain,
And thrown back headlong on the plain:
No hope thus left him in the strife,
He kneel'd to Gaul, and begg'd for life.
“No,” said the chief; “it may not be;
The devil waits dinner for the three!
Henceforth with earth thou hast no tie,
The man is damn'd that dreads to die:
But one relief for thee is left,
And, here it is.” With that he cleft
The stalwart craven to the brow,
Severing his ample brain in two.
“Beshrew thee for a bloody Scot,
If thou'st not done what I could not!”
Said Sutherland, as turning by—
But seeing the tear in Ross's eye,
And sorrow on his nut-brown cheek
So deep that word he could not speak,
The burly chief he kindly press'd
Unto his bold and kindred breast.
The day now won, a wild dismay
Blench'd every cheek of Norroway!
The list now oped to Odin's priest,
Who ran to have his king released;
Upraised his huge and fainting frame,
And comfort spoke in Odin's name;
While leeches plied with license brief,
But, ah! the case was past relief!
Seven deadly wounds, and all before,
Told them great Eric's reign was o'er,
Still, not one sentence he had spoke,
But whisper'd o'er the name of Lok.
Lok! Lok! that name of terror hung
Alone upon his dying tongue.
One told him that, on Albyn's side,
Detraction had a tale supplied
Of a low hind, MacUiston named,
Who not even birth or lineage claim'd,
Yet had achieved this wondrous deed,
Laid low in dust that royal head,
And dared, even on his great acquest,
To set his foot on Eric's breast!
When this the hero heard, he roll'd
And writh'd, as if in serpent's hold;
And from his motions it was plain
He deem'd he fought the field again;
While, from his eye's impassion'd gleam
And smile of fury, it did seem
He thought his fame he could redeem.
At length, with throbbings long and deep,
Calm as a child about to sleep,
That softly lifts imploring eye
Unto the face of parent nigh,
So lay, so look'd, in piteous case,
That terror of the human race;
And so must all the achievements vast
Of this poor world end at the last.
He stretch'd the priest his hand to hold;
That hand was bloody, glued, and cold;
While these last words hung on his breath,
“Appease the gods!—Revenge my death!”
Leave we the uproar and distress
Which Norway's chiefs could ill suppress;
And pass we over, for a while,
To Hynde, the flower of Albyn's isle,
Who saw, with joy ne'er felt before,
Her gallant champion Eiden More
Upraise his pale and wounded head,
Like beauteous phantom from the dead,
And wipe his bloody brow, and say
The faintness quite had pass'd away;
For untried armour wrought the harm,
And not the force of Eric's arm.
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Brought to the queen the conquering three,
And bade her choose a sovereign lord,
With whom they all should well accord:
So was she bound in her distress,
And in th' event could not do less.
The courtly Sutherland look'd down,
As guessing well to whom the crown
Was destined. As for Eiden More
(Or poor MacUiston, call'd before),
Leaning and pale he took his stand,
And turn'd his eyes on Sutherland,
As one his sovereign soon to be;
But burly Gaul fell on his knee,
And said, with sly and waggish whine,
“My liege, I hope the chance is mine!”
The queen descended to the green
With lightsome step, but solemn mien;
And, passing Ross and Sutherland,
She took MacUiston by the hand,
And, with a firm unalter'd voice,
Said, “Here I make my maiden choice.
Since thou hast come without a meed
To save me in my utmost need;
And sure, though humbly born, thou art
A prince and hero at the heart;
So, next my Saviour that's above,
Hence thee I'll honour, bless, and love.”
MacUiston's cheek grew pale as snow,
And the cold drops fell from his brow;
He raised his blood-stain'd hand, and seem'd
About to speak; and, as they deem'd,
He meant his sovereign to dissuade,
And disapprove of all was said:
But ere a word his tongue could frame,
Forward rush'd lord, and noble dame,
And chief, and squire, in courteous way,
Due homage to their king to pay.
For all extoll'd, with ready tongue,
The bravery of a hind so young;
And vow'd by such a hero's hand
In utmost danger firm to stand.
With prayers, and vows, and blessings said,
The crown was set upon his head;
Then shouts ascended on the wind,
“Long live King Eiden and Queen Hynde!”
Need was there for a leader brave,
For Norway's host, like wave on wave,
Began to move with backward motion,
Like tide receding on the ocean;
Only to come with double sway,
Resistless, on its sounding way.
The king's last words had moved the host
To grief and rage the uttermost;
And without head to rule the whole,
The tumult grew without control.
Distant from home, and in command
Of the great bulwark of the land,
The soldiers swore that land to have,
Or of green Albyn make a grave;
Even Odin's priest approved the choice,
And only ask'd for sacrifice.
“Now is the time!” the soldiers cried,
“While Albyn's army is employ'd
In joyful rite, and must repass
Yon straits with all their force in mass!”—
The chiefs gave way, and join'd the flame,
For why, their notions were the same;
And thus their army moved away
To set the battle in array.
Eiden, the new-made king, beheld
The movements on the adverse field;
And cried, in firm commanding tone,
“Each Scottish leader, straight begone,
And range your clans these columns under,
For, lo, a storm is gathering yonder!
And, if maturely I foresee,
Dreadful the breaking out will be.
“Meantime, let all the dames of birth
Speed to the boats and cross the firth;
For, in such dangers, woman still
Is a dead weight on warrior's will.
Dread not our strength, though some may scoff,
There's help at hand you wot not of;
Mine be the chance to lead the van,
And fight on foot the foremost man;
Stranger I am to take command;
But, as my guardians on each hand,
I choose forth Ross and Sutherland.
“Haste! there is not a moment's speed
To lose, else we shall rue the deed.
See that these orders be obey'd,
And promptly. If they are delay'd
By any here, better his head
Had been laid low among the dead!”
The lords were almost stunn'd to death:
They stared and gasp'd as if for breath.
“What's this,” said they; “A peasant's son
Speak thus to chiefs of Caledon?
Better we had our deed revoke,
Than bow our necks to such a yoke!”
Eiden perceived that they demurr'd,
And, heaving high his mighty sword,
Which token gave of lustihood,
Bestain'd with Eric's royal blood—
“My lords,” said he, “the danger's nigh,
Who's to command—Is't you or I?—
By your award the right is mine;
When you ordain it, I resign.
But my commands are given to-day,
And he that dares to disobey—
I say no more—submission's best—
If more must be, I'll do the rest.”
One of M'Ola's haughty race,
Who held and ruled the forest chase,
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'Twixt Lochy's side and Kyle-an-righ,
By sad mischance a speech began
To this resolved, impatient man;
A speech that tended more t'inflame
Proud opposition than to tame.
King Eiden stepp'd across the space,
With scowl portentous on his face;
And in the midst of all his kin
He clove the chieftain to the chin.
“If more such speeches be to say,
We'll hear them out some other day.
This moment's ours—the next, I wis,
Is his who best improveth this.”
He said, and, heaving his claymore,
Resumed the stand he held before.
The chiefs were awed at such control;
Such energy of frame and soul
They ne'er had witness'd among men,
Far less in upstart denizen;
Still there were some aloof that stood,
Unused to yield to vassal blood.
Just at that instant, through the array
A troop of strangers burst their way;
Led by an ancient chief, who rode
A stately steed, with silver shod:
And oh that chief was stern to view!
His robe was crimson set with blue;
While on his head, like spheral crown,
Stood broad and belted chaperon:
His face was bent like curve of bow;
His hair as white as Alpine snow;
His gray beard, quivering with disdain,
Hung mingled with his horse's mane.
Soon as he spied King Eiden stand,
With bloody sword rear'd in his hand,
He cried, “Ah, varlet! Do I see
Thee where I swore thou should'st not be?
How darest thou rear that bloody glaive
Before my face, thou saucy knave?
Hast thou been at thy old misdeeds
Of breaking swords and splitting heads?
Thy mad temerity confess'd
Hath drawn an old man from his rest.
Curs'd knave! I have thee at the last!
Seize on him, friends, and bind him fast!”
“Hold, dearest sire, for mercy's sake!
The time is precious; all's at stake.
To-day I have a task to do;
To-morrow at thy feet I'll bow.”
“Ah, thoughtless, froward, frantic boy!
Thou'st come to combat for a toy;
To fight with one will put thee down,
And for a foe that wears thy crown.
But I'll prevent it. Ne'er shall man
Before my face thy youth trepan.
Seize on the stripling, I command;
I'll bind him with this aged hand!”
“Sire, I've already fought and won;
The great decisive deed is done.
This day thy grandson's hand hath slain
Great Eric of the northern main;
Hath gained for thee supreme renown,
And won my father's ancient crown;
And, what is more than power or fame,
I've won the flower of all our name!”
“What! Thou, young eaglet of the rock!
Brave scion of a noble stock!
Hast thou our sister realms set free
Of their relentless enemy?
The man who hath for twenty years
Kept us in terror and in tears;
Who all despite to me hath done;
Hath slain my kinsmen one by one;
And my two sons, too rashly brave,
Brought both to an untimely grave?
Ah! knave and vagrant as thou art,
Come let me hold thee to my heart!
“Ye chiefs of Albyn, cease your noise
List Colmar King of Erin's voice!
This is your prince whom I embrace,
The flower of all our royal race;
King Eugene's son of soul refined,
And cousin to your sovereign Hynde;
MacUiston's both, as you know well,
And that old dotard monk can tell.
The truant fled me in disguise,
To seek adventures most unwise;
I follow'd, and sent men away
To seize him ere the combat-day,
Who last night found him in his bed:
He slew my officers and fled!
And, in despite of earth and hell,
Has done this day what you can tell.
“Yet he hath that which man exalts,
For all his foibles and his faults:
Oh, he is brave! most nobly brave!
Forgive these tears; I love the knave!
And here to Albyn's fair command
I join the crown of Erin's land.
“Fear not the north's huge power combined;
I have ten thousand men behind;
Who, with Prince Eiden at their head,
Such havoc and deray shall breed
'Mongst that detested brutal host,
Glad shall they be to leave your coast.”
Then the old pagan moved his crown
From off his head, and kneel'd him down,
And thus, with reverend lifted eye,
Address'd his bright divinity:
“Thou glorious Sun, my father's god,
Look down from thy sublime abode
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And bless this brave and blooming boy:
Not with the common light of day
Be thou director of his way,
But on his inward spirit shine
With light empyreal and divine;
For thousands on his reign's success
Depend for mortal happiness.
“And when thou leav'st thy heavenly path,
To sojourn in the realms beneath,
Be charges of him nightly given
Unto thy lovely Queen of Heaven;
Who, with serene and modest face,
Watches above the human race,
And sways by visions of dismay
The spirits prone to go astray;
For 'tis not hidden from thy sight,
That dangers of the silent night,
Dangers of women's witching smile,
Of wassail, wake, and courtier's wile,
Far deadlier are to virtuous sway
Than all the perils of the day.
“And now, thou source of light and love,
Great Spirit of all things that move
If thou wilt hearken to my prayer,
I'll such a sacrifice prepare,
As ne'er on beal-day morn did smoke
Beneath thy own vicegerent oak.
“O blessed Sun! I here avow
Thee for my only god, and bow
Before thy bright and holy face,
Sublime protector of my race!
Whilst thy omnipotence shall burn,
Creation's father'd eyes must turn
To thee for life in donative,
And every comfort life can give.
I ask but life for me and mine,
Whilst thy transcendent glories shine;
If farther world of bliss there be,
To Christian souls I yield it free.”
Columba, hearing all reveal'd,
Before the ancient monarch kneel'd,
And cried, “O king! did I not say,
That this thy son should Albyn sway?
That he was destined—he alone,
To save his father's ancient throne?
Thou didst oppose the high decree
As far as influence lay with thee;
Now it hath happ'd in way so odd
That man could not the event forbode:
But who can thwart the arm divine?
Thanks to another God than thine!”
Colmar look'd with averted stare
On the good father kneeling there;
But deeming him below reply,
He only hemm'd, and strode him by.
Then, taking Eiden by the hand,
He led him forth along the strand,
Heaving his ample shield in air,
And wildly shaking his white hair;
And with deep sobs and laughter blent,
He wept, and shouted as he went,
“Who buckles brand on brigantine,
To follow Uiston's son and mine?
The top of Albyn's royal tree!
Who's for King Eiden and for me?”
The Scottish nobles, mad with joy,
At finding there was no alloy
Yet mingled with the metal good
Of Fingal's and the Fergus' blood—
With shouts, and songs, and one assent,
To battle rush'd incontinent.
The Norse came on: as well they might
Have tried to stay the morning light,
The torrent turn by sword or spear,
Or stop the storm in its career.
The Danish men came in the van
On Sutherland's and Ross's clan—
And dreadful was their onset shock,
On the small plain beneath the rock;
Thousands were slain; and, woe to tell!
There Colmar, King of Erin, fell;
And Gaul of Ross, as brave a lord
As ever wielded warrior's sword.
But clan on clan, like billows toiling,
Came panting on, for battle boiling,
And swept the Danish host before,
Like wreck upon the ocean shore,
Which every wave drives on and on—
So roll'd the strife tow'rds Beregon.
To tell of all the deeds of might
That there were done from morn to night.
Would steep my virgin patroness
To the fair bosom in distress:
And to relate the deeds of doom
Wrought by the royal young bridegroom,
Would class my song 'mid fabulous lore,
A folly I indulge no more.
Whene'er a breach was made in flank
Or rear of Albyn's battle rank,
There was MacUiston to supply
The breach, and quell the enemy:
Alas! he struck a foe too late
When brave old Colmar met his fate.
But yet the sire upraised his head,
And feebly laugh'd, and bless'd the deed;
Then, bending back his rigid form,
Like shrivell'd pine beneath the storm,
He fix'd his latest visive ray
Upon the glorious God of Day;
And some weak piping sounds were heard,
As if a joy with terror jarr'd;
The parting spirit's last recess
From dust and dreary nothingness!
The battle spread from cliff to shore,
Along the fields, where late before
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That drove the Scots from Beregon:
This day that order was reversed,
The invader's closest files were pierced,
And foot by foot forced to give way;
Till, at the to-fall of the day,
Their speed of foot they 'gan to try
Within the city gates to fly:
They wanted Eric in their van,
Which brave MacUiston overran.
King Eric's corse lay on the field;
Deserted in the flame of fight,
When Norway's files wheel'd to the right.
That and old Colmar's, side by side,
Were borne in barge across the tide,
That funeral honours might be paid,
When to Iona's isle convey'd.
The tidings of the battle won,
And mighty deeds the king had done,
And who he was, on wings of wind,
Flew o'er the ferry to Queen Hynde:
Then of her joy supreme I wot
A bride may judge, but man can not.
Meantime, as deep the darkness grew,
Eiden march'd over Drimna-huah,
And down upon Bomean Moor
Descending at the midnight hour,
He found the enemy's camp at rest,
Without a guard to east or west;
Nought there remain'd in shape of foe,
But wounded men and menials low;
For all within the city gate
Had fled, on learning the defeat;
And many less intent on prey,
Unto the fleet had stolen away.
Spoil was there none, save armour good,
And hides, and furs, and beastly food;
And ere the dawn of morning came,
That mighty camp was all on flame;
A sight that cheer'd each Scottish glen,
But woeful one to Norwaymen!
On the return of morning light,
Full grievous was that army's plight,
Without a general of respect,
Or prince, or leader, to direct,
Save one was qualified the least—
Odin's most high and potent priest.
At board, at muster, or in field,
No warrior council Eric held;
Through life he suffer'd no cabal;
King, general, he was all and all.
But this bluff priest, in wondrous way,
Held over him perpetual sway;
While his last hest, “the gods to appease,”
Made this old fox's powers increase;
Save him, the host would list to none:
They ran to him, and him alone.
Until that time, King Eric's word
Had saved the city from the sword,
From pillage, and the thousand woes
That conquer'd city undergoes;
And he had saved the innocent
From the last throes of ravishment.
But now this foul and bloated priest
Issued forthwith the loved behest,
To take the city for a prey,
The loss and charges to defray,
By way of fair and just reprise:
But keep the maids for sacrifice.
And once that great oblation made
Unto the gods, as Eric bade,
The priest would answer with his head,
For Odin's high and heavenly aid.
The soldiers lauded with acclaim
The priest of Odin's blessed name;
And darted on the spoil away,
Like hungry tigers on their prey.
One hundred virgins, richly dress'd,
Were brought before this goodly priest;
And out of these selected he
His god's own number—three times three;
Those that remain'd by lot were shared
Amongst the soldiers of the guard.
Oh, grievous chance! sure death was bliss,
To such a hideous doom as this!
Well might they say, on such a lot,
Is there a God in heaven or not?
Unto the top of Selma's tower,
Beyond the reach of human power,
The nine were borne for sacrifice,
With songs and shouts that rent the skies,
And the poor victims of despair
Were stretch'd upon an altar there.
By this time many a weeping dame
Had left that hive of sin and shame,
And fled to Eiden's camp on high,
Still placed upon Doon-Valon-Righ:
All other comforts he disdain'd,
Compared with the advantage gain'd;
And there above his foes he hung,
Like osprey o'er the gannet's young.
But ah! the rueful news that came
Distracted every warlike scheme:
There lay the victims in their view,
Surrounded by the hideous crew;
And Selma's seven towers could then
Have guarded been by twenty men
Against a thousand. Such a scene
May Christian ne'er behold again!
The hymns of Odin that ascended
'Mid screams of death and horror blended,
Form'd such a dire discordant yell,
As sinner scarce shall hear from hell,
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He takes his drear reluctant flight,
By power unseen impell'd behind,
That sails him swifter than the wind,
To some unfathom'd gulf below,
Which minstrel fears, but does not know—
Of utter darkness and of dread
The very spring and fountain-head.
That this picture of Scandinavian worship may not be viewed as an exaggeration, I shall quote the words of the learned M. Mallet. “The appointed time for their sacrifices was always determined by another opinion, which made the northern nations regard the number three as sacred, and particularly dear to the gods. Thus, in every ninth month they renewed the bloody ceremony, which was to last nine days; and every day they offered up nine living victims, whether animals or human creatures. Then they chose among the captives in time of war, and the slaves in time of peace, nine persons to be sacrificed. The choice was partly regulated by the choice of the bystanders, and partly by lot. The wretches upon whom the lot fell were treated with such honours by all the assembly—they were so overwhelmed with caresses, and with promises for the future, that they sometimes congratulated themselves on their destiny. The priests afterwards opened the bodies, to read in the entrails, and especially the hearts, the will of the gods, and the good or evil fortune that was impending. The bodies were then burned, or suspended in some sacred grove near the temple. Part of the blood was sprinkled upon the people, part of it upon the grave; with the same they also bedewed the images, the altars, the benches, and walls of the temple, both within and without.” —See Introd. Hist. Den.
To influence the powers of heaven,
For woman's sake, though shunn'd by thee,
For hers who nursed thee on her knee,
Now use it; for no earthly power
Can save in this distressing hour!
Pray Him, in whom my soul believes,
Trembles before, but not conceives,
To send relief—Oh, father cry!”
King Eiden said, with streaming eye.
Columba stood amidst the men,
And sung a hymn from David's pen;
Then kneel'd upon the flinty rock,
The Almighty's succour to invoke;
But ere his God he had address'd,
Or suppliant word to him express'd,
The shouts from Selma's turrets sounding,
And tens of thousands these surrounding;
And smoke ascending to the sun,
Told that th' unholy deed was done.
The king, the saint, and warrior bands,
Upon their faces laid their hands,
That on such scene they might not look,
Nor the abhorr'd remembrance brook;
But good Columba bent his eyes
On heaven, and, with most vehement cries,
Implored his Saviour and his God
To smite with his avenging rod
Those rude and violating beasts,
Those vile polluted idolists,
Who dared to stain the murderous knife
In Christian virgins' sacred life.
And, as 'tis told in ancient rhyme,
Some words like these, in tone sublime,
He mutter'd to the Eternal's ear,
Which made the kneelers quake to hear:—
“Father of angels and of men!
Thou, whose omniscient heedful ken
Takes in the ample bounds of space,
Wherever smiles the human face,
Or seraphs sing, or angels dwell,
Or demons that in torment yell,—
Turn here in mercy from above
One glance of justice and of love;
Of love to those who look to thee,
And justice on their enemy;
And view a deed that stamps disgrace
On thy beloved human race.
Oh God! can such a deed beseem
Creatures thou diedst to redeem?
“If thou Jehovah art alone,
And Odin but a god of stone,
Pour down thy vengeance from the skies
On these polluted obsequies.
View but the deed, and ere 'tis done
In darkness thou wilt veil the sun:
His flaming orb shall cease to burn;
The moon and stars to blood shall turn,
While the broad sky aside shall fold,
And like a garment up be roll'd.
“Oh, if thou comest—as come thou wilt,
Vengeance to take on human guilt;
Then be thy wrath in terror shown,
By thunders from thy awful throne.
Descend in majesty supreme;
Thy chariot be devouring flame;
That all the elements may die
Beneath the lightning of thine eye.
The vales shall yawn, in terror rending,
The mountains quake at thy descending,
Nay, bow their hoary heads, and heave
Like skiff upon the yielding wave.
“Stretch but thy finger from the spheres
Towards these bloody worshippers,
And lo! the sinners and the spot
Shall quickly be as they were not!
As things of terror no more seen,
Nay, be as they had never been.
“Our eyes are fix'd on thee above—
Our hope in thy redeeming love:
Then, oh, in mercy to our race,
Hear in the heavens thy dwelling-place!”
While yet the Christian army kneel'd,
Ere brow was raised from rock or shield,
Heaven's golden portals were unbarr'd,
And the Almighty's voice was heard!
It came not forth like thunders loud,
When lightnings through the liquid cloud
262
With chafe, with clatter, and with boom;
It came with such a mighty sound,
As if the heavens, the depths profound,
And tempests at their utmost noise,
Cried all together in one voice.
Deep call'd to deep, and wave to wave;
Stone unto stone, and grave to grave:
The yawning cliffs and caverns groan'd;
The mountains totter'd as they moan'd;
All nature roar'd in one dire steven;
Heaven cried to earth, and earth to heaven,
Till both the offenders and offended
Knew that the Eternal God descended.
Before it every fragment flew
Of movent nature, all in cumber,
And living creatures without number
Were borne aloft with whirling motion:
It lifted ships out of the ocean!
And all, without one falling shiver,
Were borne away, and lost for ever;
But there were cries of death and dread
Heard in the darkness overhead!
After the wind, with rending roll
A crash was heard from pole to pole,
As if the Almighty's hand had rent
The ample yielding firmament;
Or split with jangle and with knell
The adamantine arch of hell;
And, lo! from out the heavens there came
A sea of rolling smouldering flame,
Which o'er the sinners' heads impended,
And slowly, dreadfully descended;
While with their shouts the welkin broke,
“Great Odin comes! our god, our rock!”
Just while their horrid sacrifice
Still flamed with incense to the skies;
Just when their hearts were at the proudest,
And orisons had pealed the loudest,
The liquid sounding flame inclosed them,
And roll'd them in its furnace bosom!
That city fill'd with loathsome crime,
With all its piles of ancient time,
After the fiery column broke,
Scarce gave a crackle or a smoke,
More than a heap of chaff or tinder,
But melted to a trivial cinder!—
Scarce had the eye of trembling hind
Regained its sight—with terror blind,
His heart began to beat in time,
Or shudder'd at the heinous crime,
Ere the appalling scene was o'er!
One single moment, and no more,
All glitter'd with a glowing gleen,
Then pass'd as they had never been.
Walls, towers, and sinners, in one sweep,
Were solder'd to a formless heap,
To stand, until that final day
When this fair world shall melt away,
As beacons sacred and sublime
Of judgment sent for human crime.
Adieu, dear maids of Scotia wide,
Your minstrel's solace and his pride;
The theme that all his feelings move
Of grief, of pity, and of love;
To you he bows with lowly bend;
His ancient tale is at an end.
More would he tell, but deems it best
That history's page should say the rest.
Your minstrel's solace and his pride;
The theme that all his feelings move
Of grief, of pity, and of love;
To you he bows with lowly bend;
His ancient tale is at an end.
More would he tell, but deems it best
That history's page should say the rest.
There thou may'st read, and read with gain,
Of Eiden's long and holy reign;
How Haco and his winsome Wene
Were Scandinavia's king and queen;
How much he owed her in his sway,
And loved her to his latest day.
He and his inmates to a man,
Dress'd in the garb of Highland clan
(Of Skye-men, whom they slew in fight,
When Donald Gorm was beat by night),
The maids had rescued from the pile,
And borne them to some western isle:
Thence they return'd to Albyn's coast
In wedded love, when all their host,
Save those within the ships that lay,
Had melted from the world away,
And were received with greetings kind
By Eiden and his lovely Hynde.
'Twas there that ancient league was framed,
For wisdom, peace, and justice famed
For many ages—Blest is he,
Thus hallow'd by posterity!
Of Eiden's long and holy reign;
How Haco and his winsome Wene
Were Scandinavia's king and queen;
How much he owed her in his sway,
And loved her to his latest day.
He and his inmates to a man,
Dress'd in the garb of Highland clan
(Of Skye-men, whom they slew in fight,
When Donald Gorm was beat by night),
The maids had rescued from the pile,
And borne them to some western isle:
Thence they return'd to Albyn's coast
In wedded love, when all their host,
Save those within the ships that lay,
Had melted from the world away,
And were received with greetings kind
By Eiden and his lovely Hynde.
'Twas there that ancient league was framed,
For wisdom, peace, and justice famed
For many ages—Blest is he,
Thus hallow'd by posterity!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |