The Poetical Works of Robert Story

Spring was full Queen—her beautiful domain
Comprising mountain now, as well as plain.
—Bertha and I stood on that green hill-side,
Where stood the cottage, one sweet morning tide,
And gazed with pleasure on a hundred hills—
The nearest green, and streaked with glittering rills;
The farther distant bleak, of wilder forms,
And trenched and furrowed by a thousand storms;
While One, that towered on high above the rest,
Had a deep gash upon its ample breast,
In which a wreath of lingering snow still shone—
The single relic of the winter gone!
Which seemed, in my desponding moods, to be
Left by its false, or happier friends—like me—
Conspicuous, lying there day after day,
And slowly wasting, in its place, away!
Fair were those hills, and still they looked sublime,
Although no longer in the garb of rime;
Fair were those glens, that deeply wound below,
Still white—but white with daisies, not with snow;
And fair those streams, that lay as smooth as glass,
Reflecting banks of broom, and hills of grass!

II.

“These Mountains wild,” began the Maiden, “claim,
Each for itself, a separate local name.
We stand on Lanton Hill. Not far behind,
The verdant Howsden woos the summer wind.
That mountain, with its three wild peaks, before,
Is styled by dwellers near it, Newton Torr.

335

Tho oak-clad ridges, there, of Akeld swell,
And here, the softer slopes of Yevering Bell.
While towering, yonder, with his patch of snow,
And proudly overlooking all below,
Is Cheviot's mighty self, his throne who fills—
Th' admitted Monarch of Northumbrian hills!
—Two streams you see, one winding still and clear,
The other hastening on its wild career,
As glad yon deep and sunless glen to miss—
The College that we call, the Beaumont this.
Beneath that clump of trees they meet, and then
Their mingled waters take the name of Glen—
A humble stream! which yet to pious fame
Is not without its pure and gentle claim.
For men relate, that when the Gospel-beam
Began at first across the land to stream,
A hundred Saxon converts, in one day,
Washed in its tide their crimson sins away;
While angel-bands, revealed to mortal sight,
From cloud and mountain watched the sacred rite!

Paulinus coming with the king and queen into a manor or house of the king's, called Ad-Gebrin, now Yevering, abode with them thirty-six days, employed wholly in catechising and baptising; during which time he did nothing from morning to evening but instruct the people in the saving word of Christ; and being thus instructed, he baptised them to the forgiveness of their sins, in the river Glen, which was hard by.—History of Northumberland.

III.

“On Glen's fair bank stands Coupland's massive Tower—

I am not prepared to prove that Coupland Castle, now the property of M. T. Culley, Esq., existed at the period of the poem, or that it ever had so illustrious an occupant as I have imagined for it. This is a work of fiction, and, with the exception of two or three leading points, pretends not to historical accuracy.

Yonder you see its darksome turrets lour!
There makes the Chief, when in the North, his stay.
And mark you not yon modest structure gray?
It is an ancient ‘church.’ Around it wave
Green yews on many a peasant's lowly ‘grave’—
So call we man's last resting-place, the still
And certain refuge from all earthly ill!
The graceful shrubs that—tall, and close, and rank—
Extend along the Beaumont's northern bank,
And gaily clothe it with their yellow bloom—
These graceful shrubs are, in our language, ‘broom.’
This plant, of many branches on a stem,
And each branch crested with a purple gem,

336

Which, armed and plumèd, like a Warrior stands—
We call a ‘thistle.’ This the tenderest hands
May grasp, although its shape and colour strike
As being to the others not unlike.
It hath no name I wot of; but, above
The rest, it should be styled ‘The flower of love’;
For 'tis to it the wondrous spells belong,
Which thus some bard hath worked into a song:

IV. Song.

THE FLOWER OF LOVE.

Young Wadda, on a summer's eve,
The maid he long had wooed, addressed:
‘See! I these flowers of bloom bereave,
And put them underneath my vest.
The first shall bear thy name, 'tis meet;
The other that of Edith Bain!
And wont the morning, love, be sweet,
That sees one relic bud again?’

They parted—as young lovers part,
With many a last good night and kiss;
And each went home, with lightened heart,
To dream a dream of love and bliss.
Yet her heart was not happy quite;
She pondered on those flowerets twain;
And oft the maiden said, that night,
‘O! which of them will bud again?’

Next morning to her cot he hied:
‘Come, guess on which the bloom's begun!’
‘I nothing care,’ she archly cried,
So Edith Bain's be not the one!’

337

He caught her in his arms. ‘We meet,
Life-wedded by this token plain!
And is not, love, the morning sweet,
That sees the relic bud again?’

V.

The Maiden, having sung her simple lay,
Two flowers selected; cut the bloom away;
Then bade me place them ‘underneath my vest,’
To represent the two I loved the best.
“I know,” she said, “the favourite of ‘the twain.’
But have a doubt that that will ‘bud again!’
But to my task.” She stooped, and hand and foot
Employed to pluck a wilding from the root—
“This is the ‘mountain fern,’ of which they say

This tradition respecting the fern is still current among the peasantry of the district in which the scene is laid. I have often, when a boy, cut the fern-root, and have as often succeeded in convincing myself that I saw the initials I.C. clearly defined in its veins and shadings. The impression of a fern on the shoulder of the ass, is a fact equally accredited.

It had high honour in the olden day.
Its root still bears the marks thereof, indeed,
But those our learnèd clerks alone can read.
When the Redeemer deigned to visit earth,
And, though divine, to be of mortal birth,
Lowly and meek of heart, on foot he trod;
In all his blameless life, but once he rode.
And then no stately chariot marked his pride,
No pompous steed that Monarch might bestride;
The Ass—the all-despised—received for load,
That day, the Form of the Incarnate God!
And He—the kind, the tender-bosomed One—
He—who inflicted pain or ill on none—
He—while the vast, adoring multitude
His peaceful way with peaceful palms bestrewed—
Rode humbly thus, and carried in his hand
A simple mountain fern, instead of wand!
The shoulders of the creature, some discern,
Still bear the figure of the honoured fern,
As if He claimed, by that transmitted grace,
Our care and kindness for the patient race.

338

Alas the while! like many more of His,
That gentle claim by man neglected is!”

VI.

Thus ran the Maiden on—describing still
Each object seen, or met with, on the hill,
And ever intermingling fancy meet,
Or legend, like her nature, simply sweet.
“Bertha!” I cried, “thou art a kindly elf,
And framest all thy legends like thyself!
I would repay thee; for I too full well
The native legends of my land could tell.
But most of them are of a nature stern—
Unlike thy story of the mountain fern.
In sooth, the meek god whom thy tale describes,
Would little suit our roving Northern tribes!
Almighty Woden,

Odin, or Woden, was the chief god of the Scandinavians. His Palace was Valhalla, where he rewarded all such as died sword in hand. The rewards are described in the text. “There remain to this day,” says Mallet, “some traces of the worship paid to Woden in the name given by almost all the people of the north to the fourth day of the week, which was formerly consecrated to him. It is called by a name which signifies Woden's day.” To which I add that the Northumbrian peasantry of the present time, probably pronounce the name of the day in prceisely the same manner as did their ancestors in the times of paganism. The call it Wadnesday—sounding the a in the first syllable as in father.

when on earth alive,
In glorious battle ever loved to strive;
And still, high-seated in Valhalla, saves
The richest draught for him who nobly braves
Death on the field of heroes, and who goes
Most deeply crimsoned with the blood of foes!
He, when the iron ranks of war we pierce,
Breathes into every breast his spirit fierce,
Till—filled with his divine, inspiring breath—
We mock at suffering, we exult in death,
And, proudly passing from the field of fame,
Join the Immortal whence our valour came,
And, ever in the god's own presence there,
By turns the battle and the banquet share!
But—there no longer ranked with mortal men—
Our daily battles will be pastime then;
Then will our nightly banquets have a zest
No earthly banquets ever yet possessed;
For we shall quaff from out Valhalla's horn
Mead-draughts immortal—pure as dews of morn!

339

Such glorious god, such future life, be mine!—
Yet, lovely Bertha, I would hear of thine.”

VII.

“Alas,” said Bertha, “very ill would be
The spell of God set forth, if done by me.

Dr. Adam Clark derives the word gospel from two Saxon words, God and spell—i.e. God's spell, or charm.

For spell indeed it is, a potent charm
All-ghastly Death of terror to disarm,
And change the Spectre to a Seraph bright
That opes to us the gates of Heaven and Light!
Yet it is simple too; and since you ask,
To try to tell it will be pleasing task.
—But first, no god of wood or stone have we,
No Idol own, no local Deity.
He whom we worship, fills unbounded space;
He fixed the stedfast Cheviots in their place;
Streams, small or great, took currents from his hand;
The winding Beaumont flowed at his command.
He made the Sun. Yon azure Sky above
Is the blue curtain woven by his love—
Spread o'er the world by day, and, in the night,
Besprinkled with his thousand stars of light.
He formed the Moon; and, what may seem to thee
A greater proof of power, he formed the Sea—
Which, though 'tis able to engulph in brine
Ten thousand fleets as numerous as thine,
Fills not the hollow of the Mighty Hand
That fixed its boundaries, and curved its strand!”

VIII.

Then did she tell how Man he made—in mind
Fair as the universe for him designed;
And how man turned aside, and, in brief time,
Fell from his state of purity to crime;
How blood—how kindred blood—for vengeance cried,
And how with blood the very earth was dyed;
Till God grew weary of a stubborn race
That lived to grieve his soul, and scorn his grace.

340

How then the world he drowned, but saved a few
By whom was peopled all the earth anew;
And how the second race, still self-accursed,
Were soon as wicked as had been the first.
Again did kindred blood for vengeance cry,—
But there was Mercy this time in the sky!
“The Son of God,” she said, “his only Son,
His Son Beloved, and with the Father One,
Came down into the guilty world, was born
Of Woman—(still on every Christmas morn
We celebrate that birth; you Danish men
Call the same season Yule, and revel then,
Profaning the good time)—To men he showed
The way of life, the certain path to God.
The men he would have taught and saved, ingrate,
Returned him boundless scorn and bitter hate;
His pure and priceless gold accounted dross,
And seized and nailed him to the felon's Cross!
—Eclipse and earthquake, in his dying hour,
Marked the sad triumph of the Evil Power:
The sickening Sun beheld the tragic spot,
Beheld and trembled—madmen trembled not!

IX.

“The Tomb received the Saviour's relics cold,
The Tomb received them—but it could not hold!
On the third morn, before the day-light broke,
Self-animated, as from sleep, he woke!
Self-raised, he rose! He rose, as all the wise
Who place in him their trust, shall one day rise!
—Two women who, before his death, had hung
Oft on the music of his heavenly tongue,
Sought, while it yet was dark, the Sacred Tomb,
Laden with spices rich, and sweet perfume,
His body to annoint. They came, they saw—
Not the dear corpse they sought, but, filled with awe,

341

Beheld, instead, two angels, by the light
Of their own raiment, which was flowing white
And glistering—flowing over form and limb—
To which the whiteness of yon snow is dim!
‘Wherefore seek ye,’ the shining Angels said,
‘The Living here where only dwell the Dead?
Lo, He is risen!’—In fear the women turned,
Trembling, away; when He whose death they mourned,
Stood, as in life, before them! living, stood,
Himself, a breathing form of flesh and blood!
—Nor but to them did he in life appear;
He talked with others who had loved him here;
Showed them how Heaven, by virtue of his death,
Was made, to man, accessible through Faith;
And bade them bear the glorious tidings forth
To every quarter of the peopled earth!
Then in their sight, and in the sunshine broad,
Rose to the clouds, and disappeared—to God!
—Woe to the Prince, however wide his sway,
Who hears the tidings, and then turns away!
Joy to the Peasant, howsoe'er despised,
Who hears with faith, and is with faith baptised!
Such peasant, dying, to a state shall mount,
Where thrones and sceptres are of no account!”

X.

With wonder, Harold, doubtless, thou hast heard
Poor Bertha's story almost word for word,
When she has long been turned to dust—as I,
Who now repeat it, very soon shall lie!
But the relation was so new to me,
So simply told, and yet so feelingly,
That—more than I to Bertha then confessed,
Or even cared to think—it touched my breast.
Hence every word, with every shade of tone
The Maiden gave it—as we walked alone

342

On that green mountain-side—is in my ear,
Distinct as on the day I stood to hear!
“Not very wrong,” I said, “the creed can be,
Sweet Bertha! since it is believed by thee;
And should it e'er be mine, the praise or blame
(But be it praise!) shall rest upon thy name;
And, trust me, I will come for baptism then,
To the pure waters of thy favourite Glen!”
I said it half in jest, and yet, 'tis odd,
Those very waters saw me given to God.

XI.

More might my tongue have said, but that I saw
A moving Form betwixt us and the haugh,

Haugh. This word is hardly English; but it ought to be so, since its use by Scott and Burns. It means level ground bordering on a river.

Now brightly vanishing by bush or tree,
Then shaming sunshine on the open lea!
“Bertha!” I cried, “do Angels still descend
From Heaven to Earth, to bless us and befriend?
If so, there hither cometh, as I live,
The very Angel of thy narrative!”
“O hush!” said Bertha gravely. “Such bold strain
In mouth of Christian were esteemed profane.
It is no Angel, but a Woman good,
That now hath issued from the oaken wood.
The gentle Lady of thy heart is near,
And simple Bertha claims no more thine ear!”
At the same time the Maiden sighed and smiled,
Then added: “In a place so lone and wild,
She seldom leaves the Tower without a guard,—
And lo! I see them riding hitherward.
O'er yonder copse are flashing helm and plume,
And prancing steeds are bursting through the broom!”
The latter words on me were all but lost—
A nearer, fairer sight my eyes engrossed!

XII.

The moment often dreamed of when alone,
And often prayed for, was at length my own!

343

The Vision of my wildest dream stood there,
There stood th' Inspirer of my warmest prayer!
And I—who had, in hours of silent thought,
Befitting term and phrase not vainly sought,
To meet th' expected time—had trained my heart,
When it should come, to play no timid part—
And who had ever, in the front and van
Of conflict, borne me as becomes a man—
Now found my spirits, erst so high and proud,
In presence of that Lady changed and cowed!

XIII.

'Tis vain, my son! I cannot half express
The charm of her Imperial loveliness!
She had the look, the manner, and the mien,
The step and stature of a Virgin Queen!
She hardly seemed to walk, but rather glide—
'Twas the swan's motion on a gentle tide!
The summer wind was playing with her hair—
I've heard them say, my son, that thine is fair.
I doubt if on another human head
Tresses so beautiful were ever shed!
Did craftsman skilled the precious secret hold
To work with sunbeams, as he works with gold,
He might, perchance, collect, arrange, and twine
A gossamer-wreath that so would curl and shine!
Thus too, her perfect form, her faultless face,
A sculptor might have well essayed to trace;
But then he could not have informed the whole,
And lighted up the countenance with Soul!
With Soul, that gave to lip, to cheek, to eye,
Each its expression, rich, or soft, or high,
To every glance and every movement grace,
To all a power—which is denied a place
In the mere living piece of soulless earth,
Whatever be its mould, its rank, its birth!

344

XIV.

I see her, Harold, on that mountain-side,
In all her virgin beauty's bloom and pride!
I see her, Harold, in the dearer light
Of many an after year, when—scarce less bright,
But somewhat softened, mellowed by the lapse
Of time, and touched by passing grief, perhaps—
She shone in hours of sadness and of gloom,
Like Bertha's Angel in the Sacred Tomb!
Speaking to me of life, of hope, of cheer,
Of blissful worlds that never saw a tear!
Worlds! into which—if true the Christian creed,
And if not true, 'twere very sad indeed—
She long hath passed! Her high and queenly brow
Is crowned with fairer, brighter tresses now;
And, hardly less than Seraph even here,
She is a Seraph—in a happier sphere!

XV.

She came. Her first look almost set at rest
The wild wave of commotion in my breast;
Her first word—frank, and destitute of art—
Completely reassured my settling heart.
She named the peril I for her had braved;
She thanked me for the life my arm had saved;
And, lightly passing all I owed to her,
Entitled me her kind Deliverer.
She marked the deadly pallor of my cheek;
She noticed that I still seemed faint and weak;
And said she dreaded I should brook but ill
A lengthened journey over holt and hill.
For of such lengthened journey, she averred,
She had, alas! that very morning heard,
And the first chance, in gratitude, had sought,
To give me warning of the tidings brought.

345

XVI.

My countrymen, she said, with torch and brand,
Had ravaged all along the eastern strand;
Had first laid waste the peaceful banks of Tyne,
Then made the billows of the Humber shine
With midnight fires. Thence marching, they had since
O'ercome, in arms, the bravest Saxon prince;
And now advanced their high and daring claims
To hold e'en London, and its sea-way—Thames,
Where now their fleet was moored. Her kinsman Chief,
She added, zealous for the land's relief,
Esteemed my presence with the royal host,
As what would serve the patriot cause the most;
And had himself arrived, that morn, to bring
His valued Prisoner to the Saxon king.

XVII.

Conflicting thoughts the Lady's news inspired—
My friends' bold raid my mounting spirit fired;
I heard the tale of battle far remote,
As if I listened to the trumpet-note;
My hand, instinctively, essayed to clasp
The trusty steel—which was not near my grasp;
And with that bitter consciousness recurred
The truth, as bitter, of the Lady's word,—
That I was in captivity, afar,
And scarcely fit—if near and free—for war!
Until th' announcement made to me that morn,
My fetters had been light, and lightly worn;
Now, for the first time, painfully I felt
Close round my every limb their iron belt,
Thenceforth to gall me, and to gall the more,
That my brief, brilliant dream of love was o'er!
For final seemed the mandate I had heard;
And thence my lover's fears at once inferred,
That pass but some few minutes—few and fleet—
We who had scarcely met, no more should meet!

346

From the sharp spur and torture of that thought,
A desperate energy my spirit caught,
Which made me overlook, it may be, slight
The wily arts employed by lover light,
A gentle Maiden's gentle ear to please;
But served my purpose, haply, more than these.
For genuine Passion breaks obstruction through,
And wins—where Prudence is afraid to woo!

XVIII.

Half kneeling on the sward, with upturned look,
Her fair hand—not withheld—in mine I took;
She, slightly bending forward, seemed to hear
The words I spoke, with no reluctant ear.
“Lady! a chilling frost thy tidings bring,
That falls, and withers all my bosom's spring!
I gaze on thee; but the sad time comes fast,
Nay, it comes now, when I may gaze my last!
Then O! forgive me, if I now reveal
The hope I cherished, and the pang I feel!
I love thee, Lady! deeply, madly love!—
And knew I any word that word above,
In deep or wild significance, its use
Would, in my passion, find a fit excuse!
I love!—And hear me—I am of a line
That boasts a rank, it may be, high as thine;
And though to-day a Captive, I may be,
By battle or by ransom, soon as free.
O say—were ever that my fortune's chance—
Might I not hope to meet thy favouring glance?
If too abrupt my earnest question fall,
Blame the ill-sorted time—not me—for all!
Blame time, or me! but, Fairest, bid me hope,
And I with more than fate will boldly cope—
With more than fate wage battle haught and high,
And for thee live, or more—will for thee die!”

347

XIX.

Deep, undissembled anguish thrilled my breast;
Close to my burning lips her hand I pressed;
Nor to withdraw it thence essayed she—nor
Appeared a frown upon her brow therefor.
A high and quick suffusion, rosy red,
O'er her fine countenance just came and fled—
Such passing tinge the mountain snow hath worn,
When clouds of crimson have been rife at morn!
“Brave Dane, I will not,” she replied, “affect
To feel displeasure, where I feel respect.
It is to thee I owe, that I have now.
The power at once to feel it, and avow;
And this is not a time, nor likes my heart,
To meet thy honest truth with needless art.
In turn forgive me, then, if to thy suit
My ear is closed, and if my tongue is mute!
Though not indeed a prisoner like thee,
I am, in sober sooth, as little free.
My noble kinsman holds within his power
Disposal of my person and my dower.
I can but wed me as that kinsman wills,
Who thus my dying sire's bequest fulfils;
And rest assured, that with a Heathen Dane
To match his Ward, by him were deemed profane.
Hope then no more!—And yet, if thy fair aim,
Instead of worthless love, were worthy fame,
For thee there yet remains a noble part,
And one befitting well thy generous heart!”

XX.

“O name it not!” I cried. “Deprived of thee,
Lady, no further part remains for me.
—I err. One part there is! Unbind my chain;
Give me my free blade in my hand again;
Before me set thy friends in war-array;
And I, as man hath never slain, will slay—

348

Despair inspiring me to shed a flood
Of gore, and revel in thy kindred's blood!
O no, no, no! The wretch I could not be,
To slaughter men who must be dear to thee!
My love, I feel, unmans me. I have done
With all that warriors prize beneath the sun—
War and its fame, the light of woman's eye!
Nerveless and hopeless, I have but to die.”
“Die! thou shalt live!” she said, “and give me yet
To owe a deeper and a dearer debt!
My life is little; but, Sir Dane, to save
A nation's life, were worthy of the brave!
Hear me. My Country bleeds at every pore;
The deadly strife, alas! seems all but o'er;
Our ancient glories vanished, woe and shame
Are all that wait the Saxon power and name!
Gorged with our people is thy Raven Black—
It rests with thee, perhaps, to turn him back;
It rests with thee to bid these inroads cease,
And leave our suffering Land its wonted peace,
Do this, and win thee honours, pure and proud!—
But wherefore cometh on thy brow a cloud?”

XXI.

She was aright. My Danish spirit burned;
The part assigned, indignantly it spurned;
No longer there a kneeling suitor, I
Stood up, erect, and firmly made reply:
“No, Lady not for thee! not for thy love!
Though valued all earth's wealth and fame above—
Though all earth's wealth and fame, against it, weigh
As less than nothing—would I see the day,
When treacherous word or deed of mine turned back
To his own fields my glorious Raven Black!
Strong let him soar, and high, till he survey
The Saxon Island as his own wide prey!

349

Strong let him soar, and high! or, feeble, sink!—
But let no one who fears or loves me, think
That I the base, degenerate wretch can prove
Who gives his Country for his selfish Love!”
Some admiration, and no small amaze,
I saw, were blended in the Lady's gaze,
As thus I spoke. “Brave Dane!” at last she cried,
“Couldst thou imagine that my words implied
Dishonour? Mine! who idolise the fame
That gilds the patriotic warrior's name,
Nor lightly thine! I should most deeply grieve—
But here comes One who soon will undeceive
Thy mind on this.” I turned me round to see—
A troop of armèd horsemen scoured the lea;
Up to our hill-side stance, like light, they flew,
Wheeled, and a living circle round us drew!

XXII.

The young and graceful Leader of the troop
Reined up his steed beside our little group,—
To Bertha cast familiar smile, to me
A word or two of studied courtesy,
But to his lovely Ward such phrase sincere
As gentle brothers use to sister dear.
And, certes, Harold, as I gazed on both,
I could, it seemed to me, have ventured oath,
That nearer kindredship the parties claimed,
Than either Bertha or herself had named.
'Twas singular to see their aspects strike,
At the same time, so different and so like!
To see the lines of beauty in her face,
Become, produced in his, heroic grace;
And that sweet dignity of look and mien,
Which might, in her, have graced a youthful Queen,
Roughen in him, until it took the air
Of martial Leader, prompt to do and dare!

350

Moved by the semblance, though a haughty Dane,
I almost longed to join the Chieftain's train,
Take, at his side, a brother-warrior's place,
And link my future with his name and race.
Such inconsistency can Love awake!
My heart was with him for the loved One's sake.

XXIII.

A moment's space some talk, apart, they had—
His look was earnest, and his tone was sad;
While from his lovely listener's raised eye-lid
The frequent tear-drop gathered, gleamed, and slid.
Meantime, two armed attendants came with speed,
One brought my arms, one led a saddled steed,
When I, by them accoutered soon, and horsed,
Sat ready for the ride by fate enforced.
Half round I turned me, as I sat on selle,
That I might say—at least might wave—farewell;
But she my glances sought, had disappeared!
And I, who now some treachery vaguely feared,
Was falling fast into a sullen mood—
When lo! poor Bertha at my stirrup stood.
It seemed as if my very soul she read,
For, speaking in the Danish tongue, she said:
“Droop not, nor dread! There is no need. Of those
Who lead thee forth, not all, be sure, are foes.
There ride to-day, along with them and thee,
Some who would perish, but to set thee free,
Were freedom wished. To this one sign attend—
The man who speaks thy language is a friend.
Farewell—farewell! and O! through life and death,
Thy guide and guard be He of Nazareth!”
E'en while she spoke, the line of march was made,
And swiftly forward moved the cavalcade.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO III.

I.

II.