The Poetical Works of Robert Story

He may of battles well discourse, my son,
Who hath beheld a hundred lost and won;
And who, through fields where warring thousands bled,
Hath often charged—retreated—rallied—led.
But that which roused the slumbering camp to strife,
Was more a struggle stern for death or life,
By men surprised in sleep, and unprepared,
Who bravely fought, yet while they fought, despaired,
Than ordered field which practised Leaders like
To gaze upon—before a blow they strike;
Where marshalled rank to rank their fronts oppose,
And all is dreadful beauty—till they close!

II.

The instant that the warlike summons rung,
That instant Guthrum to his feet upsprung;
Upsprung his valiant Chiefs, and hurried thence,
Each to secure his separate post's defence.
My earliest thought was faithful Eric—he
Who had imperiled everything for me;
Nor was my other, younger friend forgot—
I bade them mark the fight, but mingle not.

383

“For if,” I said, “we conquer, then believe
The highest guerdon ye shall both receive.
And if we fail, ye may, by acting thus,
Escape the fortune they will deal to us.
Ye can but share it, when all chance is gone!”
E'en while I spoke, I did my armour on,
And joining Guthrum's side—my ancient wont—
Rushed forth with him to meet the battle's brunt.
We met, instead, our men recoiling back
From the foe's first, and not least fierce attack,
Which, with the utmost skill and vigour joint,
Had been directed 'gainst our weakest point.
By threat, by gesture, there compelled to halt,
We led the fugitives to fresh assault,
Repulsed, in turn, the coming Saxon might,
Rolled back the entering current of their fight,
Cleared our own trench betimes, at point of blade,
And manned the breach which there the foe had made!

III.

Then first I saw the wildly-moving field—
The marshalled foe by hundreds stood revealed;
On many a burnished helm and bright steel blade,
The brilliant beams of early morning played.
On their broad banner, which I saw advance,
The Charger White of Wessex seemed to prance—

It was not long ere they saw the White Horse, the Banner of Wessex, bearing down upon them. Alfred attacked their redoubts at Ethandun in the weakest point, carried them, drove out all the Danes, and, as the Saxon chronicles express it, remained master of the carnage. —The Norman Conquest.

A symbol that to every eye made plain
The Saxon Alfred was in arms again!
“I did not think,” the valiant Guthrum cried,
As with stern glance the coming Steed he eyed,
“When he so swiftly fled, yon burning noon,
That we should meet again—at least so soon!
Aymund, be firm! For see, with greatest force,
The Saxons this way bear their heavy Horse!
Now mark me—ere this day-light fair hath ceased,
My Raven on their Charger's flesh shall feast!”

384

IV.

Wave after wave, the surging war came on;
Wave after wave dashed fiercely—and was gone!
For we were rocks, our sea-beat stance that held,
And each successive wave—unmoved—repelled.
Yet firmest rocks, that many a storm outbrave,
In lapse of time must fall before the wave;
And mortal nerves, whatever be their strength,
If pressed continuously, must fail at length.
Scarce could our arms the heavy falchion wield,
And scarce, before us, bear the heavy shield;
Yet still fresh numbers, vigorous as the first,
Against our frail and sinking barrior burst.
The trench, besides, that void erewhile had lain,
Now filled and heaped with bodies of the slain,
Supplied our foemen with a ghastly bridge,
And readier access to the earthen ridge
On which we fought. Our band, perforce, gave way,
And in they rushed with more than torrent-sway!

V.

I tell, my son, but what I saw and shared—
I wot not how the other Leaders fared;
Wot not who yielded, who maintained, his post;
I only know the day, by us, was lost!
I only know that, save for prisoners ta'en,
The Danish Camp contained no living Dane!
And that brave Guthrum and myself, of those,
Had now, alas, become the prize of foes!
Me they at once disarmed, and would have slain;
But one exclaimed: “Hold! hold! It is the Dane
Who 'scaped from us in yon wild moonlight scene:
Better for him if there he still had been,
Than reckoning with our victor King to-day!”
The captors laughed, and dragged us thence away;

385

Nor stayed their steps, until, in Guthrum's tent,
Before the Saxon King they humbly bent.
For—mournful change to come from one defeat!—
Their King now sat in Guthrum's honoured seat;
And Guthrum stood, his final doom to hear,
Where he had lately stood—and none his peer!

VI.

I said, before the Saxon King they bent.
I dreamed not, Harold, of the base descent!
Proud as if still I led an army's van,
I scorned to bend the knee to mortal man;
And, though in regal presence, hardly saw
The Prince to whom my captors knelt in awe.
Contemning my own fate, aside I looked
To see how his the noble Guthrum brooked—
His soul was strung up to the highest tone;
His glance was free and fearless as my own!
And had the Monarch given, that moment, breath
To one brief word, and that brief word been—Death—
He would have marked, my son, no terror-sign
Either on Guthrum's visage, or on mine.
Brothers in many a former field of strife,
And more than brothers now in parting life,
Fixing on Alfred stern and scornful eye,
Both would have died—as heroes ever die!
While glanced across my spirit some such thought,
My stern and scornful eye the Monarch sought:
But scarce I gave to my own sight belief—
I saw—I saw—the young Northumbrian Chief
And the same instant I perceived, my son,
The Saxon Monarch and that Chief were one!

VII.

The sullen mood, the dark and savage pride,
Which had all form of reverence denied,
At once gave way. Respect, esteem sincere,
And certain recollections, did what fear

386

Could never have achieved. I flew to bend
Before my Victor, and to hail him friend;
Though I had reason, as you now must know,
For doubting if I still should find him so.
But Alfred saw, and, starting from his seat,
Came forth—as if an honoured guest to greet;
My act of cordial homage stayed, and took
My hand with warmest grasp, and kindest look.
“I thank my God!” with emphasis he said,
“That thou, my friend! hast 'scaped the Saxon blade;
And that brave Guthrum—this, I know is he!—
Survives it too, my other friend to be.
All we of late discoursed of—I and thou—
The righteous hand of Heaven hath altered now;
Hath left me free a Monarch's power to use,
Gently or sternly, as myself may choose;
And doubtless, thy escape's implied distrust,
Or worse, might seem to render sternness just.
But spoken word, whatever may befall,
A King of England never must recall!
Vanquished, to thee I offer made, and will,
As Victor, trust me, every part fulfil,
On the conditions which we named.—Meantime,
Not to arrest pursuit, were deepst erime!
Ho! Kenric, Cerdic! haste ye both away!
A white flag in the sight of all display,
And let the heralds, in our royal name,
A truce, an instantaneous truce proclaim!”

VIII.

Obedient to the Saxon King's behest,
Had scarcely parted the brave Chiefs addressed,
When tent-ward came a crowd with clamorous din,
Who roughly dragged two other captives in;
In whose sad looks, as soon as turned to view,
I recognised my rescuers kind and true.

387

—Stern charge at once the King on Eric laid,
Of kindness much abused, and trust betrayed;
Attributed to him the damning guilt
Of half the blood in that red morning spilt;
And uttered high command, in the same breath,
To lead the caitiffs out to instant death!
The elder warrior, who had hung his head
Submissively, now raised it up, and said:
“Thou art all good; a deep offender I;
I merit death, it seems; and I can die.
But hear, my King, a wretch's latest prayer—
Spare this poor Youth! the young and guiltless spare
Still to my child a kind Protector be,
And I will gladly perish—blessing thee!”
The King was not unmoved, yet still his hand,
Extended, seemed to indicate command;
And still their forms the savage captors bent,
In act to force them from the royal tent.

IX.

I interposed: “Brave Prince,” I humbly said,
“Thou hast, in me, excused the acting head;
And, having kindly pardoned that which planned,
Mayst well forgive the purely passive hand.
Go, search thine army, and, from rear to van,
Thou shalt not find, believe, a truer man
Than this same Eric! 'Twas his Danish blood
That for a moment checked his loyal mood.
And Hengist, I have ample proof to show,
Holds every foeman of his Prince his foe.
Forgive them!” “No, brave Dane, it may not be!”
“Yet hear me—yield the traitors up to me!
To take the Old Man from his Monarch's sight,
Will not by him be deemed a penance light;
And for the Youth, I know a simple spell
Wherewith to fix that Youth's allegiance well!”

388

“Then deepest treachery were a virtue made;
But be it so,” the King, relenting, said.
At this old Eric threw him on the ground,
And, clasping good King Alfred's knees around,
With tears of joy the Monarch's feet bedewed.
Erect the while, the youthful Hengist stood—
“I have but little skill to plead or 'plain,”
The Stripling said, “but bring the bravest Dane
Before my falchion—or the slanderer bring,
Who dares to call me traitor to my King,
And he, in combat, who beholds me flinch,
Like vilest snake shall scotch me—inch by inch!”
A murmur of suppressed applause went round,
Nor royal Alfred at the blunt speech frowned.

X.

The noble Chiefs, on peaceful mission sent,
By this time had returned into the tent,
And now they made report, that, near and far,
The hot pursuit was checked, and stayed the war.
Here stood the Saxon's victor ranks, they said,
Impatient all to find revenge delayed;
While there, recovering heart, the routed Dane
Was mustering fast his broken bands again;
And, undismayed by recent overthrow,
Was ready to inflict, or take, a blow.
In sooth, so high appeared their mutual rage,
'Twas feared the armies yet might re-engage!
The Monarch heard the risk; he heard appalled;
And quickly to his standard-bearer called:
“Ho, forth with us!” And forth, with hasty stride,
Across the field, where war had raged, we hied,
Until we reached the narrow strip of green
That stretched the dark and scowling ranks between.
“Here,” cried the Monarch, “full in every eye,
The Saxon banner, let us raise on high;

389

And, high beside it, give the flag to wave,
Dear to each Dane, the flag of Guthrum brave!”
'Twas done—and fairly floated into light
The Raven Black beside the Charger White!
Th' exulting Danes the signal's import knew,
And loudly shouted as the banners flew.
With fainter cheer the less-pleased Saxons hailed
The sign that peace and amity prevailed.

XI.

The generous Monarch then, with air benign,
Took in his own brave Guthrum's hand and mine,
And pledged us solemnly his kingly troth,
His word confirming by a needless oath—
That fair Northumberland should us obey,
Nor e'en the Humber bound the Danish sway;

Alfred granted them the most liberal terms, giving up to Guthrum, their king, all the territories of East Anglia and Northumbria, to be held tributary upon the easy conditions of his evacuating all the West Saxon dominions, and receiving baptism along with the principal chiefs of his army.—Britton's Beauties of Wiltshire.

For thence to Thames, along the Eastern coast,
Dominion wide should noble Guthrum boast.
Upon the other part, we gladly swore—
At first on ring and bracelet vowed to Thor,
And then on holy relics,

“Godrun,” says Thierry, “with his captains, swore on a bracelet consecrated to their gods, that they would in all good faith receive baptism.” And Asser, in his Life of Alfred, says: “Also they swore an oath over the Christian relics, which with King Alfred were next in veneration after the Deity himself.”

shrinèd bones,
That had, they said, been the Apostle John's,—
To hold of him the Kingdoms he had named;
To rule them by the laws himself had framed;
Embrace the Christian faith; essay to win
Our warlike followers from their rites of sin;
And, lastly, guard the Isle, now common made,
From every power that would its shores invade.
—These were the terms on which we rule obtained,
And these the heralds to the hosts explained.
Nor was it long ere, o'er the glittering fields,
Rung wide the clangour of assenting shields!

To strike his shield was invariably the way in which a Northman expressed his assent to any proposition.

XII.

No more of battle and of blood, my Boy!
Thenceforward, all was triumph, all was joy!
Men that had lately mixed in deadly fray,
Were seen commingling now in friendly play.

390

Guthrum, who in his secret soul despised
Both creeds alike, was soon, with pomp, baptised,—
The King himself, beyond his royal wont,
Responding for him at the sacred font;

King Alfred officiated as spiritual father to the Danish chief, who, putting the neophytical white robe over his armour, departed with the wreck of his army. The limits of the two populations were fixed by definitive treaty, sworn to, as its preamble set forth, by Alfred, King; Godrun, King; all the Anglo-Saxon wise men. and all the Danish people.—The Norman Conquest.

And, daily walking in his garment white,
Full grimly, Harold, looked the Neophyte!
For me, I waived the wished immersion then,
Reserving for that holy rite the Glen,
And hinted my desire that all the Danes
Who pleased, should cleanse them of their moral stains
In the same pure Northumbrian stream with me.
“It shall be so! and more—Ourself will see
The rite performed,” the generous Monarch said,
And instant order for the voyage made.
Nor rolled there many summer suns away,
Ere—flying all with flags and streamers gay,
And followed by the city-crowd's acclaims—
Two stately fleets were sailing down the Thames,
Whose gallant Leader waved her canvass wings
Proudly o'er Alfred, Guthrum, Aymund—Kings!

XIII.

As round the fair and winding shores we went,
Rose on our right, the wood-crowned hills of Kent.
The Essex marshes chanced that morn to be
A bluely-sparkling, spacious, inland sea—
For as the tides their daily changes make,
Those grounds are sometimes land, and sometimes lake.

The marshes of Essex, at high water, would form a magnificent scene for centuries after the death of Alfred—the embankments which prevent the Thames from overflowing them, having been constructed only about a hundred years ago.

Faint o'er the vapour—mist and cloud between—
A Rainbow lent its beauty to the scene,
Which I observing, to the Monarch told
Its name and use affirmed by credence old—
The arch of Bifrost, built across the sky,
By which the gods descend, or mount on high.

The gods made a bridge between heaven and earth; this bridge is the rainbow. Its name was Bifrost.—Northern Antiquities.

“A fanciful conceit,” he said, “in sooth,
But not more beautiful than is the truth,—

391

Which thou shalt hear, as, from God's Book sublime,
It hath been rendered into Saxon rhyme:

Song.

THE BIRTH OF THE RAINBOW.

The Flood was o'er. The earth began
Its wonted garb to don;
And all that now survived of Man,
From Ararat looked on.
Thence looked the white-haired Patriarch,
Begirt with sons and daughters—
Afraid as yet to disembark,
And trust receding waters.

For still, upon the verge of sight,
Where sky and land combine,
He fancied billows gleamed in light,
And begged of Heaven a sign.
“O God!” he cried, “whose Mercy saves,
Assure my sons and daughters,
That they may trust yon distant waves,
Nor fear returning waters!”

No form or shape appeared thereat,
God hath no shape or form;
But a Voice came, more soft than that
Of gale at ended storm!
“Turn, second sire of men,” it said,
“Turn ye, his sons and daughters,
See on the cloud my sign displayed,
Nor fear returning waters!”

XIV. Song continued.

They turned, and, full against the sun,
A wondrous Bow there came—

392

Of many dyes, and every one
The purest of its name!
“That,” said the Voice, “shall be a sign
To all thy sons and daughters,
That never more will Wrath Divine
Destroy the world by waters.

“Whenever showers on earth descend,
And sunbeams glance between,
That bow of love shall brightly bend,
That pledge of peace be seen.
And long as Time holds on his march,
Shall all Earth's sons and daughters
With grateful spirit hail the arch—
Triumphant o'er the waters!”

Thus Heaven-assured, they sought the plain;
But—human—timid—still,
Long shook they at each sound of rain,
And at each swelling rill.
But when on high the Token glowed,
How joyed those sons and daughters!
How knelt they, and adored the God
Whose power had calmed the waters!

XV.

While thus the King half sung, at every word
It haunted me that I had somewhere heard
Rhymes chanted so before. But Alfred drew
Again my notice to the scene in view.
He praised its loveliness, and, certes, I
Withheld no term of fitting eulogy,
But said: “No lands in lovely England shown,
Can match the region which is now my own—
The varied land that fronts the eastern waves,
The land of mountains, and”—“Why not, of caves?”
The Monarch slyly interposed, and laughed.
Then added, gravely: “Not all Eric's craft,

393

And not the deepest cave in northern glen,
Could from my search have 'vailed to hide thee then,
Had other cares my longer stay allowed!
—I told thee, Aymund, by defeat unbowed,
How willingly my faithful people all
Would arm and muster at their Monarch's call.
I had e'en then—and by a surer scout
Than thy friend Eric proved—sent summons out;
And well I knew that, met on Selwood-lea,
My friends, in arms, already waited me.
That thou shouldst see their numbers, and thence know
They were no feeble, despicable foe,
And so report them—this I did intend
Ere thou to Guthrum's Danish camp shouldst wend.
But this thy fond escape was found to mar,
And I had left me no resource but war.”

XVI.

“But why conceal thy rank?” “Fair reason why!
Thou, in the north, hadst friends, but none had I.”
“I friends?” “Ay—thousands, had our names been known,
Who would have seized my Captive as their own.
—Of all that people the Northumbrian plains,
One half at least are Danes, or sons of Danes,
The relics of past inroads, men who now
Have wisely changed their armour for the plough;
Thy future subjects, who received, unknown,
The vanquished guardians of the Saxon throne,
Until the time was ripe.—My friends I found
In arms assembled on th' appointed ground,
And burning to be led to war. For me,
I had designed a previous scrutiny,
That I might learn how you in camp were laid,
And how, and where, attack might best be made.
I changed my wonted garb, a harp prepared,
And as a wandering Minstrel forth I fared;

394

With ease, admittance to your camp obtained,
And e'en the royal tent of Guthrum gained.
Nay, thou thyself didst praise my minstrel-skill,
And pay it—which is something better still!
Look here! nor need'st thou greatly blame thine eyes;
They saw me, Aymund, under some disguise!”
I looked, and lo! my own, my well-known ring
Gleamed on the finger of the smiling King—
The very same which, as his song's reward,
I had presented to the seeming Bard!
The eye of Guthrum flashed. “By mighty Thor,
And mighty Woden!” it was thus he swore—
Unmindful, or perhaps oblivious now,
Of his late Christian rite and solemn vow—
“If I had known thee! Past, alas, is past,—
But that achievement should have been thy last!”
The Monarch smiled the honest truth to hear,
Rough from a heart that never knew a fear.

XVII.

Didst ever mark, in early summer, when
The mist, at dawn, had filled some mountain glen,
And, standing on its verge of dewy heath,
You could but dimly see what lay beneath,—
How soon, when Morning had begun to stream,
Melted the mist before the warming beam,
And gave the glen, with all its varied bloom,
Its depth of woodbine, and its sides of broom,
With its long rivulet's links of rosy light,
As if by magic, to thy wondering sight?
E'en so the words of Alfred rolled away
The veil of mystery from his minstrel-lay!
Its inspiration's source, erewhile concealed,
In sudden sunshine lay at once revealed!
And judge, my son, with what a thirsty ear
I drank disclosures—new—unhoped—and dear!

395

XVIII.

“Aymund!” said Alfred, “when, at Lindisfarne,
It was my hap thy princely rank to learn,
Thy life, or ransom, was at first with me
A cold affair of pelf or policy.
But warmer feelings soon replaced the cold,
When that poor Maiden innocently told—
(The Maiden Bertha, whom my Sister chose
To be the sole companion of her woes,
Resigning, without one regretful sigh,
The proud attendance of a time gone by!)—
When Bertha told in what way ran the stream
Of fancy, during thy delirious dream,
And when, by certain words that chanced to slip,
In private converse, from my sister's lip,
I found, with small surprise, that in her heart
Her bold Deliverer held an honoured part.
For Woman's gratitude, my friend, will move,
Ere well herself perceives it, into love,
And sometimes all too quickly for control—
Yet is Rowena high and firm of soul;
And wert thou now to sue as Heathen Dane,
Believe me, Aymund, thou wouldst sue in vain.
But she will welcome, with a calm delight,
Her Lover—coming as a Christian Knight!”

XIX.

Here the King left me, for my heart, he knew,
Required some time its transports to subdue,
And then, returning, said: “Thy realm's affairs,
Henceforward, ask—demand thy gravest cares.
Look—now thou hast ‘regained thy high command’”—
He smiled—“‘look to the lowly of thy land!’
The rich and great have power themselves to guard;
The honest poor man in his Sovereign's ward!

The sentiments expressed in this passage, and elsewhere, are agreeable to the character and conduct of the Great Alfred, as described by Asser: “The King, eager to give up to God the half of his daily service, and more also, if his ability on the one hand and his malady on the other, would allow him, showed himself a minute investigator of the truth in all his judgments, and this especially for the sake of the poor, to whose interests, day and night, among other duties of this life, he was ever wonderfully attentive.”

To him thy bounties, with free hand, dispense;
See justice done him; be his Providence.

396

Yet be so from behind a prudent screen,
That makes thy goodness rather felt, than seen.
Yon Sun himself, with undiminished power,
Is ever finest in his shaded hour,
When his bright place in heaven is only known
By the fine splendours all around him thrown—
Excessive splendours which, as men behold,
Transmute the meanest clouds they touch, to gold!

XX.

“From out thy Chiefs, as far as in thee lies,
For posts of power select the good and wise.
I say—and wise, for be it understood,
Not always wise, alas! we find the good.
But goodness, wisdom—in one soul combined—
Form ever the best Ruler of mankind.
Encourage arts—the useful still the most,
Yet never be the light and graceful lost;
These are the lovely gleams which—as they play—
Gild the dull vapours that would shade our day;
Or more—these by supernal power are given,
To tinge the else-bleak earth with hues of heaven!
And, as the highest far these arts among,
O cherish most the Bard's ennobling song—
Which to great actions gives deserved renown,
Embalms their memory, and transmits it down;
At the same time delights both soul and ear,
And makes men Patriots as they lean to hear!

XXI.

“Akin to lofty song, its source the same,
But speaking in a higher, holier name,
And with superior power—O reverence thou
The Holy Faith that hath been taught thee now!
Walk by its rule thyself, and gently draw
Thy erring people to embrace its law,
Who—thus ‘made happy by thy peaceful sway,
To thee through life shall willing homage pay.’”

397

He smiled again, then said: “Be duly checked,
In thee, the pride of wakening Intellect,
Nor be thy reason borne along by it,
An inch beyond the scope of what is writ.
The virtue, Aymund, of a humble trust
Becometh beings who are made of dust.
What we are here, to us, my friend, is known;
What we shall be, belongs to God alone.
But safely in His care we may repose,
Who cared for us ere Earth itself arose,
Without presuming more of aught to know,
Than He, to us, hath seen it good to show.
Searching the Unrevealed, the strongest Mind
Its perfect emblem in the Thames may find.
See! how—a current deep, and swift, and strong—
It rushes, Aymund, in its pride along,
As if of power—when it at length shall gain
The foamy margin of the onward main—
To make a felt impression, far and wide,
Upon green Ocean's unresisting tide!
Alas for pride! 'Tis met by mightier force,
Met, and rolled backward on its distant source,
Compelled to re-survey each inland shore,
Which it had passed, with so much pomp, before!”

XXII.

Much more the Monarch said, and I could tell;
For 'tis a mournful privilege to dwell
On these Memorials of a noble Mind,
Which shone, on earth, a Star among mankind;
But which, to earth, has long been set—to rise
With fairer beams, and shine in other skies!
Leaving an honoured name behind it here,
To his own England, and to Glory dear!
—But the chill breeze that blows from Lindisfarne,
Begins, my son, of coming night to warn,

398

And I, it may be, do thy patience wrong,
By tasking it with narrative so long.
A very few more words will close it now,
And then we will descend the mountain's brow.

XXIII.

Fair winds and rowers stout soon brought to land
Our ships on Lindisfarne's accustomed strand,
Where the good Abbot of the Holy Isle,
On promise to rebuild his ruined Pile,
With joy agreed t' administer the rite
Of baptism to each Danish proselyte.
Then marched we forth with banner and with brand,
As if to war, across the lovely land.
Peasants, in groups, on every verdant hill,
Stood to behold us passing, mute and still,
In wonder, doubtless, why such numbers then
Should seek, in arms, the Valley of the Glen—
A peaceful vale and sweet, whose every lea
Is all day rife with butterfly and bee,
As if each flower the passing summer flings
On its fair sloping banks, had taken wings!

XXIV.

The summer-morning sun, as we advanced,
Full brightly on our armèd march had glanced;
The quiet Till had brightly seen us through,
And past the base of terraced Homilheugh;
Whence the pleased eye saw, 'mid a spacious plain,
The blossomed broom of Ewart's fair domain.

The plain upon which stands the beautiful seat of Sir Horace St. Paul, Bart., was, at the time of Flodden Field—and probably for many years afterwards—covered with broom.

But when we reached the destined river's edge,
A sudden gloom had fall'n on bank and sedge.
Dark clouds were mirrored in the gloomy stream;
With frequent flash, the lightning 'gan to gleam;
And, following fast, the thunder's sullen sound
Was heard to mutter all the Mountains round!
I felt, myself, a fear, and thought I saw,
On many a visage round me, signs of awe.

399

To the good Abbot I at once confessed
The natural feeling that disturbed my breast.
“It seems,” I said, “as if the Thunder-Power
I lately served, in yonder sky did lour
On his Apostate Son! as if he spoke
The wrath of an Immortal in each stroke!”

XXV.

“O rather say,” the holy Abbot cried,
As, rapt, the dim and quaking hills he eyed,
“Say rather that—unseen—the Heavenly Hosts
Have on these mountain-summits ta'en their posts,
And now, by turns, are uttering, from each height,
Their gratulations o'er this sacred rite,
Which brings the hundreds their glad eyes behold,
Within their glorious Master's ransomed Fold!
Green Howsden mutters, but the solemn tone
Is not the thunder's, and is not his own!
Nor are these rapid gleams mere lightning! nor
Mere echoes these that come from Newton Torr!
Their gladness now the Lantons loudly tell!
And hark—how loudly answers Yevering Bell!
In every flash, in every peal is given
A sign, a proof, that there is joy in Heaven!”
He ceased. Poor Bertha's tale to me recurred,
And now was sanctioned by the good man's word;
His accents—like the thunder—seemed to roll,
His glances—like the lightning—fired my soul!
And from his lips when those brief words had flowed,
Which dedicate the future life to God,
I stooped—the Glen's pure waters o'er me ran;
And I emerged, my son, a Christened Man!
—I need not tell thee that each warrior brave
At the same time partook the cleansing wave.

XXVI.

Jesu! at once the rolling thunder ceased;
The clouds 'gan part, and gather towards the east;

400

Out burst the sun, with brilliancy divine,
Once more on mountain and on stream to shine;
And, while bright showers were glancing down the gale,
A gorgeous Rainbow spanned the glittering vale!
No longer gazed on as the bridge of gods,
By which Immortals reach their sky-abodes,
But now believed a holy sign to be,
The pledge of peace to men, of joy to me!
Beneath its arch of glory, darkly stood
That Castle strong, begirt with wave and wood,
Which held, I knew, the all of human birth
I longed to meet with now on God's good earth.
And lo! from forth its portal—while the bow
Of heaven above them kept its freshest glow—
Issued a long bright train of maidens fair:
I asked not, Harold, if my Love were there—
But flew, and, kneeling, clasped, on Glen's green side,
The fair hand of my beauteous Saxon Bride!

University of Virginia Library

CANTO VI.

I.

II.