 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
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CANTO II.
I.
My whom—or whither—I was borne away;How long devoid of consciousness I lay;
And where I was, when feeling's light again
Came back into the chambers of my brain;
Were mysteries! and no living creature by,
Appeared to give to questioning reply.
Nathless, I did not feel abandoned all:
The light that glimmered through the lattice small,
Made me, by slow degrees indeed, aware
Of some one's rude, but not unkindly, care.
True, I was in a rustic hut; I saw
The walls were built of turf, the roof was straw;
And yet not comfortless its aspect seemed—
Piled on the hearth, a fire of branches gleamed;
And my low couch, of mountain heather made,
Was softly strown, and had been freshly laid;
While various skins, with all their shaggy hair,
Spread o'er it, fenced me from each blast of air.
The garb that I had worn, was near me flung;
The sword that I had wielded, safely hung;
My wound, too, as I shortly after found,
By skilful leech-craft had been dressed and bound.
And all were tokens that appeared to show
I was, at least, not treated like a foe.
II.
But where then was I? Was I bound or free?I started from my lowly couch to see.
A thoughtless act! which scarce allowed me time
To gaze on mountains, wild, and white with rime,
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Up to the brilliant sunshine from the glen—
For Spring, although arrived, was timid still,
And scared by Winter from his yet-claimed hill.
Of that wild scene brief glimpse did I obtain,
When darkness fell once more upon my brain,
And in this second trance, if minutes flew,
If hours, or days, went by—I nothing knew.
I woke again, awoke all faint and weak,
Dreaming I heard soft voices near me speak!
I listened, gently oped the hut's sole door;
And a sweet Vision graced the sunny floor.
III.
Before me stood a Maiden, young and fair,With bright-black eyes, and eke with bright-black hair;
With cheeks that bore the heath-bell's softest tint,
And lips where Love might purest kiss imprint!
Her graceful figure—neither low nor tall—
Was something slender, yet was full withal.
Such ever may be seen, fresh, blooming, sweet,
When at the dance the village damsels meet;
Such ever reap, in harvest's merry tide,
The yellow fields that smile by fair Tweedside!
But something sweeter in that Maiden's face,
Than e'en its nameless charm and native grace,
I saw, and prized. It was the kind concern,
The doubtful, anxious glance, that sought to learn
Whether the change, which now in me appeared,
Was that she hoped for, or was that she feared.
From those sweet signs, I then, and rightly, guessed
This Maid had been the Watcher o'er my rest,
To whom, since that wild night of flame and strife,
I doubtless owed that I was still in life;
And, deeply grateful for so kind a part,
I would have uttered what I felt at heart;
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Forbade me; and away I saw her trip.
A shadow seemed on all things round to fall,
When she withdrew; but light came back to all
With her return! And soon the Maiden brought,
With smiles, the medicine which the Leech had sought
(As afterwards she often used to tell)
On moor and moss, by river and by fell—
A precious compound! which, his science told,
Infused new blood, or purified the old.
IV.
New blood—at least new strength—there daily came,By felt degrees, into my languid frame;
But well I weened the strength or blood, conveyed,
Less from the Medicine came, than from the Maid,
From whose bright aspect and demeanour kind,
A light began to dawn upon my mind—
A light by which my fancy had full scope
To frame the visions ever dear to Hope!
That evening's strange adventures I recalled,
When, more than foemen, had the flames appalled,
The fight—the rescue—and at last the gaze
On those fair features brightened by the blaze—
Until the moment when on earth I sunk,
Exhausted, down beside the black-robed Monk.
“If,” thus I tried to reason, “I had been,
By my own friends, borne senseless from the scene,
They would have doubtless borne me to the strand,
Nor left their Leader on a hostile land—
I should not in a stranger's hut have lain,
But in my vessel, and upon the main.
Or if—provoked by holy treasure lost—
Guthrum had inland led his Danish host,
And brought me with him,—would my Guthrum not
Ere this, have visited his kinsman's cot?”
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Of the fresh warriors that renewed the fight:
“Those warriors must have Saxon been, and who
Can prove to me they were not victors too?
But if they were, then whence—I fain would know—
Sprung all this care of me, their deadly foe?
Delicious, but O most presumptuous thought!
Had that fair Lady's intercession wrought
In my behalf? And do I—can I err?
This was the Maiden I had saved with her!”
V.
Impatience all, the truth to ascertain,I would have tried my power of speech again,
But, as before, the Maiden's finger-tip,
Imposing silence; pressed her rosy lip.
My Danish ire was roused. The Maid perceived
The angry feeling, and, I saw, was grieved.
She gently pressed my hand, she did not speak,
Save by a tear that trickled down her cheek!
On this my heart my conduct 'gan upbraid—
“Wretch! this poor girl may be a Saxon Maid,
And if she is of Saxon lineage sprung,
How should she comprehend thy Danish tongue?”
There can be no doubt that the Saxon and Danish tongues were originally similar, or the same. But when it is remembered that some four hundred years had elapsed from the time of the Saxons being settled in England, to the invasion of that country by the Danes, it will, I think, be admitted that sufficient changes would in the interim have taken place in both dialects, to render unintelligible—or nearly so— a Dane to a Saxon, and vice versa The present dialect of Yorkshire, for instance, is essentially the same that is now spoken in the county of Northumberland; and yet so differently are the same words pronounced in those partsrespectively, thata Northumbrian has considerable difficulty to understand a Yorkshireman who speaks his native patois in its purity.
I begged the Maid's forgiveness with mine eye,
And the sweet girl forgave me—with a sigh!
VI.
I smiled—and yet was deeply vexed—to thinkNo power I had to seize a single link
Of that chain, whose unwinding was to guide
My future steps to ruin or a bride,
Unless my young attendant first could teach
Her invalid the use of Saxon speech,
Or I initiate that attendant young
Into the mysteries of the Danish tongue;
And either, Harold, seemed to me a feat
Less easy than a host, in arms, to meet.
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To hear the Maiden Danish terms employ!
Imperfect, it is true, but O how dear
The unexpected accents to my ear!
VII.
“The Leech's charge was strict,” the Maiden said,“That I should keep thee quiet, and in bed,
From aught that might awake emotion deep,
In one whose only need is rest and sleep.
And I, obedient to his uttered will,
Have kept thee so, and so would keep thee still.
But thou didst save me! thine the daring hand
That from the very burning plucked the brand!
And God, who died for us upon the tree,
(The Maiden crossed herself) my witness be!
I would do aught, so that it harm thee not,
Do aught to soothe or cheer thy hapless lot!
Assured that, do for thee whate'er I may,
I never can that gallant deed repay.
VIII.
“To tell, e'en now, in thine impatient ear,The narrative that thou wouldst gladly hear,
To me were task most sweet! But of the tale
A part, at least, I've sworn from thee to veil;
And thou, in turn, must pledge to me thy troth,
Never to tempt me from my taken oath.”
“I will—I do—by Woden!” I replied.
“Oh, thou art Pagan still,” she said, and sighed.
“That Woden was, I know, my father's god,
Until upon our English soil he trod,
Where he imbibed the beautiful, the good,
The pure religion of the blessèd Rood.”
“Thy sire was, then, a Danish man?” I said.
“He was; and I am half a Danish maid!
Like thee, my tather crossed the bounding main,
In quest of glory, and, no doubt, of gain
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Was here detained in sad captivity—
To which, in lapse of time, grown reconciled,
He wedded, and you see his single child,
Who, certes, little thought, when oft she hung,
In playful girlhood, on her father's tongue,
That the few words her young attention caught,
Would ever serve a Danish Captive aught.”
IX.
“I am a Captive then?” “Alas, thou art!And bitter, truly, is the Captive's part.
But touch not that forbidden theme! Enough;
At least thy gaoler is not stern or rough.”
“Kind gaoler thou! May not thy Captive claim
To know his young and lovely gaoler's name?”
“They call me Bertha,” quickly answered she;
“My father chose the name, and gave it me,
Because 'twas that his aged mother bore,
Who pined away, for him, on Denmark's shore.”
“Then, dearest Bertha, not to touch thy vow,
O tell me all thou canst—and tell it now!”
The Maiden seated her my couch beside,
And kindly thus with my request complied.
X.
“Ask not of me the rank, or e'en the name,Of her you rescued from the Convent's flame;
Let it suffice thee, if I say, in brief,
She claims some kindred with the Earl or Chief,
Who, underneath King Alfred's high command,
Now rules the kingdom of Northumberland—
Important charge! which, stretching many a league,
Demands incessant action and fatigue.
Warriors the vigil and the march may bear,
But ill they suit the delicate and fair.
This felt the Earl, and often had he tried
A place of rest and safety to provide;
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Nigh to the Convent of the Holy Isle;
Which seemed to promise, with its ample guard,
A brief asylum for his lovely Ward.
He took us thither in a luckless hour;
He saw us placed in fair and fitting bower;
But in the Convent he short space remained;
The monks scarce knew the gentle guest they gained;
One only learned the Lady's rank, and he
Was the good Abbot—whom I saw with thee.
XI.
“The Chief of us had taken hasty leave;The Convent bell had tolled the hour of eve;
The eve was slowly fading into night;
And we sat, pensive, by our lonely light;
When rose that mingled sound, whose import dread
Our conscious hearts at once interpreted—
For often had we listened to, ere then,
The fearful clangour of encountering men,
To which no ear hath ever listened yet,
That can mistake it, or that will forget!
High-born and proud, the Lady bent to hear
With more by far of wonder than of fear;
In undisguised alarm I held my breath,
And drank in every tone that told of death!
I've heard of men, on whom the watching snake
Had fixed a bright eye from the forest brake,
Who thereby have been drawn—allured—compelled—
T' approach the object, though with dread beheld.
E'en thus I felt me drawn, by mortal fear,
To look on that which scarce I bore to hear.
I saw—I hardly gazed, for what I saw,
With shriek on shriek, compelled me to withdraw!
I single light beside a column burned—
That in my hasty flight I overturned,
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In its descent, extinct or not became.
Alas! that oversight was error dire,
Which gave—who knows?—the Convent up to fire.
XII.
“The Lady's cell regained, what I had seen,At once she read in my distracted mien;
And having lost all power of utterance, I,
By silent signs, implored her thence to fly.
But all my efforts were in vain, until
Thick, smouldering smoke began the place to fill;
When—all too late—to make escape we tried,
Descending stair, and threading passage wide.
O God! the passage into which we came,
Blazed fiercely with impenetrable flame!
Then sank at last the strength which seemed divine,
And left her spirit's nerve as weak as mine.
Backward she rushed, her cell again to seek,
And spoke her terror in one long, loud shriek.
O! all to me is blank. that shriek between,
And my awakening on the Abbey Green.”
XIII.
“But then—what followed then?” I wildly cried,Mad with impatience. “O be calm!” replied
The Maid, “or I must stop. The skilful leech”—
“O tell me not of him! Resume thy speech!”
“I marked thy sudden fall; I thought thee dead;
I saw the Abbot hold thy drooping head;
I heard the moan my gentle Lady gave,
As forth she faltered—‘Save his life! O save!”
“Did she?” I inly cried, with bounding soul;
But on my tongue I kept a firm control.
“'Twas then, among the band of Danish foes,
A sudden clamour and commotion rose;
A hasty battle-line I saw them form,
As if preparing for a coming storm;
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Of all their preparation and its speed!
—The Chief, arrested by the flaming pile,
Had, fearing for his Ward, regained the Isle;
And he it was who, with a numerous train,
Had now arrived before the burning fane.
At once his martial band their weapons drew,
And on the Danes with headlong fury flew.
Tinged by the blaze, the struggling warriors then
To me seemed more like demons than like men!
XIV.
“Thy countrymen gave way. Forgive, if IConfess the truth, that then, without a sigh,
I saw thy Danish friends, man after man,
O'ertaken and cut down, as forth they ran.
The Moon now rose above the silver sea,
And, all betwixt her broad, bright orb and me,
I saw dark figures—struggling—striking—urge
Pursuit and vengeance to the ocean's verge!
I heard—or deemed I heard—the plunge and moan
Of hapless men into the waters thrown,
And the exulting cry that came from those
Who had regained their ships in spite of foes!
Then all grew hushed. Each loosened sail, outspread,
Caught from the dying flames their faintest red,
Caught from the risen Moon her softest white—
And the fleet calmly sailed away in light!”—
“Then some, at least, survive the fatal day,”
I inly reasoned, “and my Guthrum may.
But why not signal give with voice, or hand,
And call fresh numbers to assist his band?
And wherefore sprung not these, uncalled, ashore,
To check the slaughter, if they could no more?
Doubtless, because the spoil for which they came,
All knew, had perished in the Convent's flame,
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Who fight for glory, but for booty too!”
XV.
The Maid resumed: “Back came the victor Chief,And, touching thee, to us put question brief.
The Lady's answer was so softly made,
I could but guess the meaning it conveyed,
By what thereto succeeded. As she spoke,
He from his shoulders stripped his martial cloak,
And four, the stoutest of his train, he told
To place thee softly in its ample fold,
And bear thee forth. It chanced that then a Dane,
Who in the combat had been captive ta'en,
Was brought into his presence. Him he bade
Thy visage note. Downcast at first, and sad,
I saw the man extreme surprise evince
To recognise his dead, or dying Prince!
For so the captive styled thee. I perceived
The Chief was not by this discovery grieved;
But rather seemed it me that, after this,
With more of energy and emphasis,
The Earl commanded his attendants there
To treat their noble charge with gentlest care,
And resting—when and where was need—an hour,
To bring thee safely to his Mountain Tower,
Where, placed in hut from noise and tumult free,
Bertha, he added, should attend on thee.
—My simple tale is done. Here thou hast lain,
For days and days, delirium in thy brain!
But thanks to Holy Mary, mother mild,
Who hath, in answer to her asking child,
Restored to thee, in part at least, thy health—
A blissful change! to Bertha more than wealth!”
XVI.
The kindly Maiden, pausing, dropped a tear;And if, in then returning thanks sincere,
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I did not Harold, therefore blush or grieve!
“Am I, then, near the Chieftain's mountain hold?”
“Thou art,” she answered, “and I might have told
That scarcely ever passed a day, but he
Or came himself, or sent, to hear of thee,
Till called away by other cares, which still
Detain his footsteps from this Northern hill.
And She thou lovest—pr'ythee, do not start!
The humble Bertha knows thy inmost heart;
Its throbs she heard, its every thought she read,
When daily watching by thy fevered bed;
And soothly knows she, but none else will tell,
Thou lovest her!—I would that half so well
Some one loved Bertha!”—(This the simple Maid
Said playfully, yet somewhat sadly said)—
“She too hath often come, hath watched with me,
And, wondering, listened to thy reverie,
But little understood it.” “Then,” I said,
“Those visits kind may still, perchance, be paid,
And how to her shall I my mind make known,
Who can no language speak, except my own?
I have it! Bertha shall my teacher be;
The Saxon language I will learn from thee;
And if it give to every tone of mine
But half the magic which it gains from thine,
Bertha! who knows, but I in time may woo
A Saxon Maiden, and may win her too,
As did thy sire?” The blushing Maid's reply
To this, was prefaced with a deeper sigh;
But instantly, as by an effort, she
Resumed her wonted, native gaiety.
XVII.
“If thou art apt,” she archly said, “my skillShall quickly find thee words to use at will;
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‘Women have never any lack of specch.’
Besides, I've often heard my father tell
That the far country where, it seems, you dwell,
Is neigh bour to—if it be not the same
As that from which, at first, the Saxons came.
And hence, he would go on, of many a word
The sense and sound, in both tongues, so accord,
That Dane or Saxon very soon may know,
And speak, the kindred language of his foe.”
“Then, Bertha,” cried I, “we will that amend,
Since I shall learn it, not of foe, but friend!”
XVIII.
I found it as the Maiden's sire had said—A common origin the tongues displayed;
Alike in both the trunk, the same the roots,
They varied only in the spreading shoots.
And such the Teacher's, such the Pupil's zeal,
Ere many suns were o'er us found to steal,
I had the pleasure, and received the praise,
Of mastering many a Saxon word and phrase.
Sweet teachings those! that lowly hut our home,
I seldom had a wish or thought to roam;
Though when my wound permitted me to stir,
I gladly walked along the hills with her,
And learned, by other sounds, or words, to name
Whate'er within our scope of vision came.
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