The Poetical Works of Robert Story

I feel the sun!” the Aged Warrior said,
His hand upon his Grandchild's shoulder laid—
A Stripling tall, whose locks of yellow shone
In bright and beauteous contrast to his own,
Which waved, amid that summer morning's glow,
As purely white as Cheviot's drifted snow!
“I feel the sun!” again the Warrior said,
“So, rest we, Harold, on this mountain's head,
Whence thou—not I!—mayst cast thine eyes abroad,
And see the beauty of the works of God—
His Mountains wild, and his yet wilder Sea,
Which lieth in its might so tranquilly,
And wooeth with so soft a kiss the shore,
As if it promised to be wild no more!
Look to the right—Thou see'st the castled steep
Of regal Bamborough beetle o'er the deep;
See'st, far beneath, the sparkling waters play,
As wins the tide on Waren's beauteous bay;
And on the left, the Tower of Holy Isle
Rise, like a rock of snow, in Morning's smile!

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'Twas thus that rose the land, thus gleamed the wave,
'Twas thus that shone the sun, when Guthrum brave,
Guthrum the Dane, from whom, with pride and joy,
For ever trace thy princely line, my Boy!
When Guthrum led his Danish fleet, well-manned,
And drew up all his ships on yonder strand.
'Tis long ago. Men then, my son, were men!
I was not blind, I was not feeble, then!
Wouldst hear the Tale?” Young Harold smiled. He knew
The threatened Tale, but liked to hear it too;
And had, besides, a generous wish to please
Much-talking Age in its infirmities.
He therefore answered with a prompt assent;
When, gratified, his back the Warrior leant,
Beside the Youth, against a mossy stone
That cairned the mountain which they sat upon;
And while, with cheek now slightly flushed, now pale,
And voice that often changed, he told his Tale,
There needed not the Harp. That warlike hand
Could once the sword, but ne'er the harp command;
And therefore not like Minstrel, but like One
By whom bold deeds had often, erst, been done,
He, as he felt it, poured his varying theme,
And was the Bard, he would have scorned to seem!

I.

A hundred ships, my son, with mast and sail,
Had caught the impulse of the eastern gale;
In every ship, a score of rowers brave
Had backward bent their oars to brush the wave;
When Guthrum's vessel gave the parting sign,
And led herself the way across the brine.
The tallest as the first, her dragon-form

The soldiers of each fleet obeyed in general one chief, whose vessel was distinguished from the rest. He could guide his vessel as the good horseman his steed; he was initiated in the science of the runes; he knew the mystic characters which, engraved upon swords, secured the victory, and those which, inscribed on the poop and on the oars, preserved vessels from shipwreck.—Thierry's Norman Conquest.—The name of the Danish leader is variously spelt—Guthrum, Guthrun, Godrun. I am reminded by my friend Mr. Pollard, of the Audit Office, that there is a street in York which still retains his name, being called Guthrum-Gate.

Had, scathless, weathered many a wreekful storm;

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For all along her sides, from stem to stern,
The mystic words might every eye discern,
Which held within their characters a charm,
Of power the wildest tempest to disarm!
Her mast was fashioned of the roan-tree;

The roan-tree, or mountain ash, was deemed an infallible charm against the power of demons. In the old Ballad of “The Laidley Worm,” Childe Wynde's ship had a ‘mast of rowan-tree.’

Her canvas had been wove by Sisters Three,
Who, as their flying shuttles led the woof,
With magic songs had made it wizard-proof!
From the same hands, to Guthrum's safety true,
Had come the flag that at the mast-head flew,
On whose white fold there soared the Raven Black,

The Danes, on landing, unfurled a mystic standard. It was a flag of white silk, in the centre of which appeared the black figure of a Raven, with open beak and outspread wings; three of King Swen's sisters had worked it in one night, accompanying their labour with magic songs and gestures. It was supposed to indicate, by its motions, the direction in which a successful adventure might be made.— Thierry's Norman Conquest.

Empowered to scent the prey and point the track—
At least, obedient to our Northern creed,
We boldly followed where he seemed to lead!

II.

The weapons used in war on deck were stored—

Their offensive weapons were commonly the bow and arrows, the battleaxe, and the sword. Of their defensive armour, the shield or buckler was the chief. This most commonly was of wood, bark, or leather. It was generally of a long oval form, just the height of the bearer. It was not without its use even in naval encounters; for if the fear of falling into their enemies's hands obliged one of the warriors to cast himself into the sea, he could easily escape by swimming upon his buckler.—Mallet's Northern Antiquities.

The lance, the bow, the battleaxe, the sword;
While, as the bearers tall, and framed of wood,
Lashed side by side, the shields around it stood—
Ever, in case of accident, at hand,
Our floats in water, as our guards on land.
Bright lay each steel-blade, bright each burnished hilt,
With Saxon blood so shortly to be gilt,
In no obscure encounter—since there came
Two Scalds with us, to give each fight to fame;

They (the poets) were more especially honoured and carressed at the courts of those princes, who distinguished themselves by their great actions and passion for glory. Such princes never set out on any considerable expedition without some of them in their train.—Ibid.

Anlave and Rolfe their names, on Danish ground
For ready eloquence of song renowned.
Alas, to song no more they lend their breath,
But calmly slumber in the arms of death,
Their very names forgot, their strains divine
Erased from every memory but mine,
Which treasures parts of them—although it ought,
Perchance, to treasure things more worthy thought!

III.

We sailed from Denmark. Thenceforth, never more
Was eye of Aymund to behold that shore,

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Which faded from my last and lingering look—
For with strange sadness leave of it I took!
Night fell, morn rose; and still our onward way
We made through breaking mist and dashing spray.
Night fell, morn rose: and, as before, we found
But sky above us, and but sea around.
The third night came, and brought a timely blast,
Which sped our vessels forward. And at last—

IV.

Through parting clouds of crimson and of gold,
Through flying mists of white, transparent fold,
Like some young Monarch from his curtained sleep,
Arose the Sun from out the shining Deep!
He glanced upon our fleet, and, glancing, showed
The spacious bay near which our vessels rode—
Here Bamborough Castle caught his earliest smile;

The venerable remains of the celebrated fortress of Bamborough Castle stand on the crown of a high rock, triangular in figure, one of the points projecting into the German Ocean. Holy Island, or more properly Lindisfarne, which is situated a few miles north of Bamborough, is called by Bede a semi-island, being twice an island and twice a continent in one day; for at the flowing of the tide, it is encompassed by water; and at the ebb, there is an almost dry passage to and from the mainland. St. Aidan was the founder of the Monastery. —History of Northumberland.

There caught it, too, the Tower of Holy Isle;
While the wild Cheviots—distant—to the ray,
As if less distant, reared their summits gray.
Fair and familiar sight! For oft, before,
Our ships had rested on that goodly shore,
And oft had thence retraced the foaming flood
Laden with spoil—achieved by blows and blood!
And blood, we knew, was soon again to flow,
Spoil to be won, 'mid wailing and 'mid woe;
But that good fleet was destined ne'er again,
For Denmark's shore, to cross the bounding main!

V.

I sailed with Guthrum; ever at his side
As kinsman owned, and as a warrior tried;
To ask whose counsel he would often bend,
And whom he blushed not to proclaim his friend.
By my advice, a feint that morn was made—
As if we feared the shore we would invade,
Our fleet to seaward bore from Waren's bay,
Nor neared the Island till had waned the day.

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Then, while the vesper bell in distance rung,
We moored our vessels, and to shore we sprung—
A hundred men, selected from the fleet,
Inured each peril fearlessly to meet;
Guthrum himself, with falchion in his hand,
The first to leap upon the Island-strand;
Nor deem, of all the hundred warriors brave,
Thy Grandsire was the last to quit the wave!

VI.

We sought the Convent—not, be sure, that we
Would in its shade do rite of piety!
For we were Danes that held the Northern Faith,
And deemed that wreaking every structure scathe,
Whate'er its name, in which were wont convene
The hated followers of the Nazarene,
At any risk, against uncounted odds,
Was for the honour of our country's gods.
Instructed thus from infancy to feel,
Each had the stimulant of fiery zeal,
Which nerved his arm, and gave, amid the fight,
To deeds of blackest dye the hue of right.
Yet nathless, son, the firm belief is mine,
Had they not been aware how rich the shrine
Of good St. Aidan of the Holy Isle,
The pious Founder of the sacred pile—
Their zeal would scarce have brought our warriors o'er
To bootless battle on the Saxon shore!

VII.

Full gloomily against the western skies,
Still faintly tinged with sunset's lingering dyes,
The Convent rose. Within, we heard a crowd
Of devotees at worship, low, or loud.
Our savage war-cry, and our weapon-clash,
Our in-burst—sudden as the lightning's flash,
And far more startling—checked the course at once
Of the low mutter, and the loud response,

313

And dread, well-founded, of a fierce assault
Sent shrieks, instead, along each cchoing vault.
The bald and black-robed Brothers of the Rood,
With little dignity, in haste made good
Their present safety—all escaped but One,
And he stood up beside the altar stone,
Defiant, calm. He, doubtless, wished to claim
The envied glory of a Martyr's name,
And had his wish! To no man need I tell
What happed where Guthrum's deadly falchion fell!
We saw the fresh blood dim its azure shine;
We saw his victor hand upon the shrine;
And dreamed but of dividing soon the spoil,
Obtained at little risk, with little toil;
When men—not in the black array of monk—
Men—who had, at our entrance, backward slunk,
So seemed it, to the aisle's obscure recess—
Returned to light with looks of haughtiness,
And all so fully armed, as well, I ween,
To vindicate the proud change of their mien!
A chosen band they were of Saxons stern,
As, at deep cost, 'twas shortly ours to learn,
There by the Monks maintained, on duty hard—
The precious trcasures of the House to guard.

VIII.

And now, my son, I wot thy youthful ear
Is keenly bent a Tale of Blood to hear.
And I—who lately heaved a sigh, to know
We sat with scenes so beautiful below,
And all those beauteous scenes of land and sea,
One mournful, one unpeopled blank to me—
I, by the very loss of sight, have more
Of power the scene, long vanished, to restore
The Present now is nothing, Harold,—but,
Not so from me the busy Past is shut.

314

I miss, indeed, the common outward day,
But have, within my soul, a clearer ray,
In which, whate'er—in long departed years—
I saw, or acted, often re-appears,
And not, now, faint and dim—as when the shine
Of all the bright external world was mine—
But bold and brilliant, placed in real light,
And less, in truth, a Memory than a Sight!

IX.

'Tis thus, e'en now, I see that place of doom,
With its light fading till it ends in gloom.
I see the savage figures moving there,
As fiercely they emerge from gloom to glare—
Emerge in numbers more than matching those
To whom this evening finds, or makes, them foes.
I see th' astonished Danes; my gaze I turn
To where the lustres of the altar burn—
There Guthrum, sternly poising his red brand,
To fierce encounter animates his band;
Points to the fresh stain, as an omen sure
Of that which every foe must soon endure;
And is himself the very first to give
The stroke, which no man can receive and live!
A shout—in which stern Valour's heart is heard—
Shakes the vast fane, as if by earthquake stirred;
An answering shout return the Saxon foes,
And the two lines in deadly conflict close!

X.

Few men, perhaps, there be, who will maintain
That bolder is the Saxon than the Dane;
As few there are who will the converse hold,
And say the Dane is more than Saxon bold.
Once adverse races, on one soil they blend,
And, brave alike, no more in arms contend,
Except when, marshalled 'gainst a common foe,
They strive which first shall deal the victor blow.

315

'Tis plain, my son, when such in combat stand,
That numbers must the strife's event command.
Though Guthrum's falchion taught, at every wheel,
Some luckless foe the temper of its steel;
And though his gallant band, with equal skill,
And equal prowess, worked his eager will;
'Twas soon a certainty, that in the fray
The Danish force fell all too fast away.
As was my wont, I fought at Guthrum's side,
And marked his visage as our loss he eyed.
“O'ermatched,” he said, “and barred from all retreat,
No hope remains to us but from the fleet.
Go, signal them. No words, my friend—but fly!”
For thus to leave him, loath, be sure, was I.
Besides, an errand which I deemed so safe,
A youthful warrior's mood might fairly chafe.
Reluctantly, with ill-dissembled wrath,
I went; but found that not so safe the path
As I had deemed it. At the portal stood
Armed men to bar my exit—won with blood,
Theirs and my own!—I quickly reached the strand,
And gave the signal. Fast they leaped to land;
And of our men, at least two hundred more
Soon stood, in arms, along the silent shore—
All glad to quit the ships, and drowsy sea,
All proud to rescue, or to die, with me!

XI.

We marched—but had not from the beach gone far,
When lo! betwixt us and the western star,
A column of red light to heaven arose,
Lit, as it seemed to me, by Saxon foes,
A beacon on some neigh bouring hill-top—meant
To warn the Mainland of our night-descent.
But as, with rapid steps, we onward came,
I soon perceived it was no beacon-flame,

316

But of some dread catastrophe the proof—
'Twas bursting, Harold, from the Convent's roof!
And ever, as our footsteps nearer drew,
The red flame brighter—broader—grander—grew,
Till, in its far-shed splendour, visible lay
The Isle, the shore, the vessels, and the bay!
I saw the huge pile being thus consumed,
And inly said—“Is Guthrum there entombed?”
The thought was maddening! and at once I lost
Power o'er myself, forgot awhile my post,
And, acting most unlike a leader sage,
Ran forth—impelled by sorrow and by rage,
Ran forth, alone, with brimful heart and eye,
And burning to avenge him or to die!
Again I hurried to the postern door,
Whence I had cut my way not long before.
The guards were dead; but out a blast there broke,
Full in my face, of mingled fire and smoke!
'Twas with a sinking heart I backward drew;
For I believed its dark foreboding true,
And that beneath the rapid flames had quailed
Alike the brave Assailants and th' Assailed!
And Guthrum—he—my generous Prince—my friend!
But could such hero thus have met his end?
The doubt inspired a hope. With lightened mind,
I turned away, the Convent's front to find;
And gaining that, with pleasure I perceived
My frantic error had been well retrieved.
I heard my followers, heard their measured tread;
Next moment, I was marching at their head;
Another, and my voice the order gave
With me to enter—to avenge, or save!

XII.

But scarcely had the order been addressed,
When—like a torrent between rocks compressed,

317

Which toils and struggles, for a time in vain,
Free course and outlet for its waves to gain—
Along the vaulted passage to the door
I saw the tide of conflict wildly pour;
Pour with the torrent's rage, the torrent's din,
Its motions reddened by the blaze within!
The Danes came first; but, coming, backward stepped,
And still their pressing foe at sword-point kept,
And when at last they gained the outer space,
Formed, and still met them bravely, face to face,
Receding, but with step deliberate, slow,
And with strong arm returning blow for blow.
I saw my Guthrum, firm and undismayed,
Wielding, with scarce less might, his battle-blade,
And though with force diminished, cheering on
His men—when Hope itself was all but gone.
Brave heart! he dreamed not of the strength at hand
That now made victors of his gallant band;
For wearied, as they were, by lengthened fight,
And daunted by th' approach of unworn might,
It needed little but our onset-shout,
To put the Saxon remnant to the rout.
Scarcely pursued, the guardians fled apace,
And left the Danes the masters of a place
In which the Fire-Fiend held his burning throne,
And wielded there a power that dwarfed our own!

XIII.

Guthrum approached me now, with sheathèd brand,
Expressed a warrior's thanks, and grasped my hand;
And scarce his gratitude had ceased to speak,
When all were startled by a piercing shriek;
But whence it came we knew not. One averred
It was some suffocating wretch we heard,
Who, left upon the bloody floor to die,
Had given his death-pang utterance in that cry!

318

Surmised another that, in sorrow drowned,
The Fathers walked the burning walls around,
And one of them might, haply—in that brief
And fearful outburst—have expressed his grief.
But I had caught with more experienced ear,
The source and meaning of that sound of fear.
I knew the voice was Woman's! And I knew,
If half that I had heard of monks was true,
To find within a Convent's hallowed wall
A lovely damosel, were marvel small.
But no light fancy, in that awful hour,
Held o'er my bosom e'en a moment's power;
Nought but that instinct—human life to save—
Which moves the basest, but commands the brave.
Along the portion yet unfired, I ran,
Ear bent to listen, eye awake to scan;
But sight or sound of life, alas! was none,
Save one distracted Monk—and only one.

XIV.

I found the Father in the open air,
Engaged in weeping, and, it seemed, in prayer;
And more by gesture than by means of speech,
Him I contrived, at length, my quest to teach.
'Wildered at first the old man's looks had been,
But soon they bore the marks of anguish keen,
As if some object, near and dear, within,
Were perishing through his, the Father's sin!
He motioned—for it now was mine, in turn,
The old man's meaning by his signs to learn—
And straightway led me to a secret door,
By evergreens and shrubbery covered o'er.
He took my hand, and, darkly entering there,
We clombe what seemed a steep and spiral stair,
And when we had attained the highest round,
We paused, until a massive door he found.

319

That opened, from the cell a dim light broke,
Through the close air, and haze of searching smoke.
A single glance sufficed to prove the Monk
A faithful guide. Upon the cell-floor sunk,
A female form lay here, as if in death;
And there, without a movement or a breath,
Her cheek against the flashing lattice laid—
Half stood, and half reclined, another maid.
Like marble bust, the latter leaned in light,
As still, as beauteous, and, in truth, as white!
To raise them both, and both at once to bear
Down the dark windings of the same steep stair,
And into the fresh breeze of night at length—
But little tasked my early manhood's strength.
To place them on the greensward, far away
From the flame's risk, and yet within its ray,
That the good Father might employ his skill
Sense to restore—was task more easy still.
O'er them I stood, and blessed the welcome blaze
That gave, by fits, the Rescued to my gaze!

XV.

A Maiden born to rank of high degree,
Her costly garments showed the one to be;
The other's neat simplicity of dress
Might her poor Follower's lowly state express.
When breathed on by the air, the latter soon
Recovered from her deep and death-like swoon;
'Twas somewhat longer, ere the Lady broke
The fetter of the trance, and slowly woke.
At length, my son, I saw returning life—
Scarce yet triumphant in the dubious strife—
Returning colour gradually shed
Through the cheek's whiteness—like the dawning's red
Gleaming through mist-wreaths! and I saw her eye
Fair open on me—like the azure sky

320

Of morning, when the Morning Star beams through—
The seeming spirit of the kindling blue!
Harold, that was a moment richly worth
All the best moments I had passed on earth!
There are who tell us that true love requires
Time and sweet intercourse to fan its fires;
Then love, my son, was not my passion's name,
Which, in an instant, blazed from spark to flame!
That eye—I felt—that heavenly eye to me
Thenceforth my Blessing or my Blight must be!
The Star which—o'er my ocean beaming bright—
To wreck must lure me, or to rapture light!

XVI.

From such emotions, new to me and strange,
I found my spirit lapse with sudden change.
As life in her resumed its wonted sway,
It ebbed from me—or seemed to ebb—away.
My wound, unfelt while yet my blood was hot,
And since, if felt at all, regarded not,
Had, from the very moment it was ta'en,
Been stealing life with slow, but ceaseless, drain.
And now my head grew light; I fell to ground;
The sky, with all its rushing stars, went round,
And whirled to utter darkness! As I sunk,
I had some glimpses of the black-robed Monk,
And eke a vague impression of a new
And numerous force of enemies in view.
The last remembered sounds my ear conveyed,
Were those of onslaught furiously made.
Then seemed it me, that people gathered round,
Who softly touched, and raised me from the ground;
Gently they raised me, tenderly they bore
Away—away. I heard and felt no more.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO I.

I.

II.