 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
352
CANTO IV.
I.
The breeze of that sweet Morn, which freshly fannedThe verdant bosom of the sun-bright land,
And blew away each lingering vapour-wreath,
From lowland valley and from upland heath,
Bade, with like power, the gloomy thoughts depart
That had been darkly gathering round my heart!
My spirit, wakened by the gradual change
From landscape known, to landscape new and strange,
And ever varying—regained at length
Its native buoyancy, its native strength,
And rose, as it had ever done, to note
Each charm of scene, adjacent or remote.
I marked the rude huts of the labouring poor,
That stood by sheltering crag, or fenceless moor:
And scarce less rude, but stronger, massier far,
The castles of the Chiefs who led in war.
But far apart those castles were, and few,
And seldom came those lowly huts in view.
While all the land between, lay waste and wild,
Where—save lone Nature—nothing ever smiled!
II
The savage wild-boar roused him from his lair;Leaped from her grassy form the timid hare;
The deer just gazed and fled; the tawny fox
Showed his long brush, and vanished 'mid the rocks;
The bolder bison led his wild herd's van,
And, loudly bellowing, glared on horse and man,
While, mustering close behind him, every brute
Seemed bent our right of passage to dispute.
These passed—before us, as we onward rode,
Wild birds their various forms and plumage showed.
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The raven soared away on sooty wing;
Providing for its young and clamorous brood,
The rook was busy in the ancient wood;
The curlew sent his whistle, wild and loud,
Down from a clear blue sky without a cloud;
And far above them all, in broad sun-light,
The royal eagle sped his arrowy flight.
III.
Whether intending thereby to conferA mark of honour on his prisoner,
Or for my safer keeping—at his side
The Leader had arranged that I should ride.
We rode along in silence, till he saw
The sullen shadow from my brow withdraw,
When, taking of my altered humour heed,
He—as on rising ground we slackened speed—
Accosted me with courteous air and bland,
And, smiling, asked me how I liked the land?
I answered him that, Captive as I was,
For liking, I, in sooth, had little cause;
But for the land, three words might give its state—
'Twas beautiful—'twas wild—'twas desolate.
IV.
“It is so,” he replied; “and I, Sir Dane,Should like to see it made the fair domain
Of Man, and not of wild-beast. It is well
In Nature's charge to leave the rugged fell—
To let her cherish there, e'en as she will,
The heath, the gorse, the fern, and bramble still;
But pity 'tis, that ample vales like these,
Which skilful culture could transform with ease
To fertile fields, to meads, and pastures green,
Should lie, as now, a bleak and barren scene.
'Tis pity too, to see each streamlet here—
As liquid crystal brillant, pure, and clear—
354
Or wildly dashing down a savage glen.
How very different, were yon thorny brow
The fair seat of some peaceful Chieftain now,
Who with a firm, but still a friendly hand,
Might rule the happy tenants of his land.
How different too, if on this lovely spot
Rose the poor peasant's neat and sheltered cot—
Himself employed in cheerful toil, his wife
At home preparing all that sweetens life,
And his hale offspring, on the daisied lea,
Engaged in gambols held with noisy glee!
Would that such peasant everywhere I saw,
Protected by his country's equal law,
Rejoicing in his King's paternal care,
And faring—as a poor man ought to fare!
But I, Sir Dane, in talking thus, must seem
To thee, indulging in a waking dream.”
V.
'Twas new indeed, I owned, to hear the fareOf poor men counted worth a great man's care,
E'en in a passing word. The hard, the rough,
Dull boor might be of consequence enough,
In work a requisite, a want in war,
In all beside, beneath attention far—
I checked me, Harold; for, this strain to hear,
The Chieftain's look turned grave, if not severe.
“Stranger,” he said, “I mourn, but marvel not,
To hear you lightly hold the rustic's lot.
A feeling that, which oftentimes finds way
With the unthinking heirs of earthly sway.
But I, Sir Dane, have lived among the poor,
Have been the inmate of the rudest boor,
Have shared his frugal meal, his temperate bowl,
Have watched the workings of his inmost soul,—
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And all his worth aright to estimate.
Take this for truth: The difference that may lie
Betwixt the humble classes and the high,
It is not Fortune, it is Nature, that has made the essential differences between Men; and whatever appellation a small number of persons who speak without sufficient reflection, may affix to the general body of their fellow-creatures, the whole difference between the Statesman, and many a Man from among what they call the dregs of the people, often lies in the rough outside of the latter.—De Lolme on the Constitution of England.
Consists far more in manner, and in art,
Than it doth in the Head, or in the Heart.
The peasant, happy in his station low,
Knows all that it concerns himself to know;
Has loyalty; has faith at least sincere;
Has dauntless heart, and conscience O how clear!
The sense of kindness in his breast is strong;
Strong is his love of right, his hate of wrong;
And, maugre all the hardships of his fate,
He bears a heart-felt reverence for the great;
Though, if a true confession must be made,
His heart-felt reverence oft is ill repaid!
I hold, the Monarch, who—amid his zeal
And well-planned efforts for the public weal—
O'erlooks his welfare, in that act alone
Shuns more than half the duties of his throne!
O! when thou shalt regain thy high command,
Look ever to the lowly of thy land;
For know—whate'er the thoughtless proud may say—
They form its very strength, its very stay!”
VI.
“Thou canst not mean an insult; but to meThy words, at this time, sound like mockery.
For how,” I said, “regain my lost command?
My freedom—nay, my life—is in thy hand.
I wot not whither now with thee I wend;
Nor if, when it is reached, this journey's end
Shall hasten, or retard, my destined doom—
Unbar a prison, or unclose a tomb!”
“Then, generous Dane,” he cried, “most glad am I
To bid suspicion and foreboding fly.
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E'en in a foe—to valour gives its due.
King Alfred hath been told of thy brave feat
At Lindisfarne, and deems it just and meet
Such recompense for that brave feat to make,
As he can give thee, and as thou mayst take.
Look round. What think'st thou of This Land for meed?
This land—the whole—from Humber to the Tweed?
You smile, Sir Dane. Not less the scheme is fixed!
All—vale and mountain—those fair streams betwixt,
The King makes over to thy Chief and thee,
To hold of him in equal sovereignty.”
“By mighty Thor!” I cried, “a princely gift!
But tell me, if thou canst, the Donor's drift.
No monarch wise will his dominions part,
Without some motive prompting at the heart;
And gift less splendid would by far exceed
The value of a mere instinctive deed.
Unfold that motive, or at least unfold
The terms on which a Kingdom we may hold.”
VII.
“Brave Dane, when I shall thee in presence bring,There mayst thou learn the secret of the King,”
The Leader answered. “I can but surmise—
But deem the motive pure, the purpose wise.
The Monarch wishes peace, and, for its sake,
Would friends of foes, and of invaders, make;
Would place you, as an iron barrier, then,
Between him and your other countrymen;
Or join your martial people to his own,
As brothers banded round a common throne;
And, linked at once in polity and faith,
Defy the world in arms to do it scathe.
Such would appear the King's design, and he
Commits its conduct and success to thee.
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Not as his Captive, but his trusted Friend—
To Guthrum's camp. The King, I hear, would spurn
A pledge, if offered it, for thy return,
Beyond thy own free word—in which his trust
Is steadfast as, I doubt it not, 'tis just.”
VIII.
“King Alfred honours me,” “I said, “and IWill not the royal confidence belie.
But that my mission can, or will, succeed;
That Guthrum will adopt your Christian creed;
Will to your King required allegiance give;
Or stoop beneath your Saxon laws to live—
(For that your sense I apprehend to be
Of the two terms of “faith” and “polity”)
Is what I little hope,—and hope still less,
When, as I hear, unchecked and high success
Attends his arms. The Victor's towering soul
Accepts no part. It claims and grasps the whole.”
“Then he may find,” the Leader sternly cried,
“Sharp lesson taught to his o'erweening pride!
A stubborn soul the English Saxon hath,
Not very soon, or lightly, roused to wrath;
But, once enkindled, your proud Chief may know,
It burns—till it consumes himself, or foe!
Believe me, were our youthful King to meet,
E'en in a hundred fields to come, defeat,—
There still would gather round him, near and far,
Fresh force to feed the patriotic war.
For never upon England's soil, Sir Dane,
Shall foreign foot in quietude remain!—
Except it be by such agreement fair,
As thou art destined by the King to bear.”
IX.
The long ascent, by this time, was passed o'er,And level stretched, for miles, the land before.
358
Each bending horseman spurred his willing steed.
We crossed the Coquet's blue and winding stream;
Next hour we saw the wooded Wansbeck gleam;
To miles of moor day lent its failing shine,
But ceased to light us ere we reached the Tyne,
Whose surface broad, as liquid silver bright,
Was softly rippling in the Moon's calm light.
The passage of the river soon made good,
We halted there beside a black pine-wood;
Turned loose our weary steeds to graze at will;
Sat down upon the margin of a rill,
To moisten thence our welcome crust of bread;
Then pulled the mountain heather for our bed.
And—laid a glorious Summer Moon beneath—
Tell me what couch can vie with couch of heath?
His cloak his covering, and the wide blue sky,
With all its stars, his stately canopy,
Each hardy warrior proudly lay, and well!—
One only, waked and walked as sentinel.
X.
Sunk on his couch of hearther, soft and deep,The gallant Chief was not the last to sleep;
I, stretched beside him, wakeful vigil kept,
And would not—even if I could—have slept.
The offer fair of country and of sway,
Made in the Saxon Monarch's name that day,
Had, while it banished all my doubts and fears,
Revived my hopes. Years—long and brilliant years—
My fancy drew, of pomp, and power, and pride;
Nor failed with that loved One to grace my side,
Without whose presence, pomp, and pride, and power,
Were but the showy nothings of an hour!
—As thus I mused, and wore the night away,
A lovely night that seemed a softer day,
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I looked; a face I saw, a voice I heard;
The face—a man's—was closely o'er me hung,
The voice addressed me in my native tongue.
Strong was its whisper in my ear: “Attend!
The man who speaks thy language is a friend.”
“The very words of Bertha these!” “Most true,
And therefore can they bode but well to you.
Wouldst thou escape? Tell me—but under breath.
The Chieftain lightly sleeps, and it were death
To me—found thus.” “Escape!” I quickly said,
“Ay! gold to him who lends successful aid!
The wretch deserves a life-long slave to be,
Who will not, when he has the chance, be free!
But how? I see no means; and, Stranger, hark—
Thou find'st in me no mate for villain dark!
Hardly to win my freedom, would I shred
A single hair from off his manly head!”
He grasped my hand. “Believe me, not to gain
His wished-for freedom even to a Dane,
Would Eric hurt him! Rest thee—thou art free!
The time—the place—the means—entrust to me.”
He softly left my side, and on the ground,
As sentinel, resumed his moonlight round.
XI.
Unlooked-for freedom placed within my view,Gave to my stream of thought a current new.
My long-lost friends to mingle with again;
Once more my Guthrum to my breast to strain;
And by some feat in future battle shown,
For past inaction something to atone;
Would, of themselves, have powerful motives proved
To prompt me to escape. But others moved.
I saw a great advantage to be gained
To me, by liberty—if now obtained.
360
The royal offer through the Chief conveyed,
I doubted not, if free my course to trace,
I could with more effect and better grace,
Impress its prompt acceptance on my friend,
Than if as Captive I were forced to wend.
While with the Saxon King, no longer bound,
I then should treat on high and equal ground,
And thus obtain for Guthrum terms, perchance,
Fairer than he could win by sword and lance.
Or granting aught the hope of concord mar,
And that th' event, at last, be left to war,
My arm, my counsel, not to say my skill,
Would, in the strait supposed, be useful still;
And I might conquer, not fair lands alone,
But a fair Bride—to grace my future throne!
Spite of such inward visions, sleep at last
My heavy eyes began to overcast;
Which yet closed most unwillingly, and oft
Again would open on the moonlight soft,
And snowy garments see, and shapes divine,
Blend with the flashings of the streamy Tyne!
XII.
The eastern beam, o'er vales of moorland borne,Shed beauty on our march, resumed at morn.
We passed the valley of the Wear at noon;
And couched, by Swale, again beneath the moon.
The third day fair was setting, calm and sheen,
When neared we Craven's pastoral mountains green;
The beautiful and romantic district of Craven, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, deserves a poet and a poem to itself. Whernside, mentioned in the next page, is the highest of its mountains; and the dale of the Wharf one of the wildest and most beautiful of its glens. The latter is overlooked, on the south, by Kilnsey Crag—described in “The Outlaw.”
And gloom fell on us, as we slowly went
Down mighty Whernside's long and steep descent.
But 'twas a gloom that suddenly gave way
To the mild, soft, and unobtrusive ray,
Which now began, along the quiet dell,
To gleam on rocky peak and pinnacle!
361
XIII.
Behind the eastern mountain, huge and dim,The Moon just showed to us her rising rim;
By slow degrees the misty barrier cleared,
At length a circle, full and broad, she reared,
And, still ascending, upward calmly rolled
An orb yet beamless—as of dusky gold!
A moment more, and from her azure way
In ether, smiled she with unclouded ray,
Far down into the depth of that long dell
Which—overlooked by mountain and by fell—
Is watered by the Wharf, whose murmuring flow
Was audible—not visible—below;
For all along the winding dell, that night,
A waveless lake of summer mist lay white
In the calm moonshine—lay at rest, unstirred,
Save when a sudden gust of wind—scarce heard
To sigh from Arncliffe's wild and neighbouring glen—
Heaved its light-opening folds aside, and then
The rapid Wharf, in momentary shine,
Led on his waters in a silver line!
XIV.
High o'er the mist, in moonlight calm and clear,Like some tall rock that juts on inland mere,
Hung Kilnsey Crag. The white and vapoury wreath
Half veiled the little hamlet placed beneath.
'Twas here I recognised a horseman fleet
Emerging from the mist our line to meet,
As Eric—whom my eye had tried in vain
All day, to find amid the warrior train,
But who, it seems, had ta'en of us the start.
The Leader hailed him, and they spoke apart.
Then, turning quickly to the right, we rode
On ground, where horse's hoof had seldom trod!
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Down rugged steeps our cautious pace we timed;
Now over quaking moss we lightly sped;
Dismounting now, our weary steeds we led.
And thus we reached a copious mountain brook,
Which purely gushed from what appeared a nook
Formed by two meeting hills—a sheltered place,
Affording pasturage and ample space;
But which—approached—threw wide its rocky jaws,
And by its gloomy grandeur made us pause!
Half cave, half chasm, it yawned!—Absorbed, I saw;
And gazed in wonder, not unmixed with awe.
XV.
Like the extensive area of some TowerWhich giants might have made their place of power,
But whence the hand of Rage, or Ruin, all
Had torn away of each interior wall,
And yet had spared the outward barriers still,
High, massive, rude, and indestructible—
Opening on my astonished glance, at first,
The rugged glooms of savage Gordale burst!
This place, the description of which I have feebly attempted, both in this poem and in “The Outlaw” is, says Dr. Whitaker, “a solid mass of limestone, cleft asunder by some great convulsion of nature, and opening its ‘ponderous and marble jaws’ on the right and left. The sensation of horror on approaching it, is increased by the projection of either side from its base, so that the two connivent rocks, though considerably distant at the bottom, admit only a narrow line of day-light from above. At the very entrance you turn a little to the right, and are struck by a yawning mouth in the face of the opposite crag, whence the torrent, pent up beyond, suddenly forced a passage within the memory of man, which, at every swell, continues to spout out one of the boldest and most beautiful cataracts that can be conceived” “I am well aware,” he adds, “how imperfect the foregoing account will be thought by every one who has formed his ideas on the spot. It must, however, be remembered that the pencil, as well as the pen, has hitherto failed in representing this astonishing scene.”—History of Craven.
In front, and on the right, abruptly sprung
The living rock, and, slanting forward, hung—
Extending from its deep and caverned base
A darksome shadow over half the space—
Till, far above our heads, it almost closed
With the gigantic rocks that stood opposed;
Leaving small space, through which the eye might view
The sky of night's bestarred and tender blue!
Beneath, the level floor was all bestrown
With numerous fragments, which the cliffs had thrown,
As slow decay, or lightning's sudden dint,
Through years disjoined them from the parent-flint.
With some alarm I gazed upon the proof
Of possible peril from the peaks aloof,
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Of greater safety gained the gloomy base,
Of that far-slanting rock, where—feeling free
From aught, except an Earthquake's jeopardy—
I stood and saw, with marvel ever new,
A scene yet wilder—stranger—given to view!
XVI.
Right, left, in front, still towered—all rudely piled—The rocks in masses, rugged, high, and wild,
Formless, or cast in every varied form
The mountain crag receives from time and storm!
And where they towered most rugged, wild, and high,
An orifice I saw, that showed the sky,
And poured—as if from out the sky itself!—
A mighty torrent down the rocky shelf,
Which, being dashed from ledge to ledge, at last
Became the quiet brook we just had passed.
Descending 'mid the cavern's gloomy night,
The broad and broken fall of waters white
Resembled most a gush of moonshine clear,
Streamed through a thickly-clouded atmosphere—
The single intimation which is given
That there is then a lovely Moon in heaven!
XVII.
Bound by the wild power of the scene, amazedWhile Chief and follower stood, like me, and gazed,
I felt a sudden touch, and, turning round,
My self-announced Deliverer I found.
“It is the time—it is the place,” he said,
“Follow!” and quickly gliding forth, he fled.
I followed—followed unobserved—the man;
Nor needest thou enquire if fast I ran!
Lingers the hare, with yelling hounds in view?
Loiters the hart, when his swift foes pursue?
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And more than life depended on my race!
Led by the motions of my faithful guide,
My course was all along the streamlet's side,
Until into a gentle pool it fell,
Just at the entrance of a sylvan dell.
Here rose a little knoll, whose grassy base
The mountain hazel-shrub was seen to grace;
And hnman eye that had not practised been,
Could, certes, there but hazel-shrub have seen;
But my friend, stooping, quickly tore aside
The tangled boughs, and showed an opening wide—
The entrance of an unsuspected Cave,
Which now to us its welcome refuge gave!
The lately-parted boughs of hazel green,
Uniting fast, renewed their leafy screen.
Hard was the couch; but, being safe and free,
That couch of mountain stone was soft to me.
The baffled troop, without, might search the rocks—
The dogs might bay—when snugly earthed the fox!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |