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THOMAS THE RHYMER.

"But tell me now," said brave Dunbar,
"True Thomas, tell now unto me,
What man shall rule the isle Britain,
Even from the north to the southern sea?"

"A French queen shall bear the son,
Shall rule all Britain to the sea:
He of the Bruce's blood shall come,
As near as in the ninth degree.
"The waters worship shall his race,
Likewise the waves of the farthest sea;
For they shall ride ower ocean wide,
With hempen bridles, and horse of tree."

PART III.

THOMAS THE RHYMER was renowned among his
contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated
romance of Sir Tristrem. Of this once admired
poem only one copy is known to exist, which is in
the Advocates' Library. The author, in 1804, pub-
lished a small edition of this curious work, which,
if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of
Erceldoune, is at least the earliest specimen of
Scottish poetry hitherto published. Some account
of this romance has already been given to the
world in Mr. Ellis's Specimens of Ancient Poetry,
vol. i, p. 165, iii, p. 410; a work, to which our
predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged;
the former, for the preservation of the best selected
examples of their poetical taste; and the latter, for
a history of the English language, which will only
cease to be interesting with the existence of our
mother-tongue, and all that genius and learning
have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to men-
tion, that, so great was the reputation of the ro-
mance of Sir Tristrem, that few were thought
capable of reciting it after the manner of the au-
thor;-a circumstance alluded to by Robert de
Brune, the annalist:

"I see in song, in sedgeyng tale,
Of Erceldoun, and of Kendale.

Now thame says as they thame wroght,
And in thare saying it semes nocht,
That thou may here in sir Tristrem,
Over gestes it has the steme,
Over all that is or was;

If men it said as made Thomas," &c.

It appears, from a very curious MS. of the thirteenth century, penes Mr. Douce of London, containing a French metrical romance of Sir Tristrem, that the work of our Thomas the Rhymer was known, and referred to, by the minstrels of Normandy and Bretagne. Having arrived at a part of the romance, where reciters were wont to differ in the mode of telling the story, the French bard expressly cites the authority of the poet of Erceldoune:

"Plusurs de nos granter ne volent,
Co que del naim dire se solent,
Ki femme Kaherdin dut aimer,
Li naim redut Tristram narrer,
E entusché par grant engin,
Quant il afole Käherdin;

Pur cest plaie e pur cest mal,
Enveiad Tristran Guvernal,
En Engleterre pur Ysolt
Thomas ico granter ne volt,
Et si volt par raisun mostrer,
Qu'ico ne put pas esteer," &c.

The tale of Sir Tristrem, as narrated in the Edinburgh MS., is totally different from the voluminous romance in prose, originally compiled on the same subject by Rusticien de Puise, and analysed by M. de Tressan; but agrees in every essential particular with the metrical performance

just quoted, which is a work of much higher an-
tiquity.

PART III.-MODERN.

WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,
And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon1
His beacon blazing red..
Then all by bonny Coldingknow,2
Pitched palliouns took their room,
And crested helms, and spears a rowe,
Glanced gaily through the broom.
The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie;*

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee.3

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,

In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And there were knights of great renown,
And ladies laced in pall.

Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine,
The music nor the tale,

Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,
Nor mantling quaighst of ale.
True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,
When as the feast was done;

(In minstrel strife, in Fairy land,
The elfin harp he won.)

Hushed were the throng, both limb and tongua
And harpers for envy pale;

And armed lords leaned on their swords,
And harkened to the tale.

In numbers high, the witching tale
The prophet poured along;
No after bard might e'er avail

Those numbers to prolong.
Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung king Arthur's table round:
The warrior of the lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,
And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;
Was none excelled, in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venomed wound he bore;
When fierce Morholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;
No medicine could be found,
Till lovely Isolde's lily hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leeches part;

And, while she o'er his sick bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!

For, doomed in evil tide,

The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,
His cowardly uncle's bride.

Ensenzie-War-ery, or gathering word.

+ Quaighs-Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped See introduction to this ballad.

together.

1

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard

In fairy tissue wove

Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,
In gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High reared its glittering head;
And Avalon's enchanted vale

In all its wonders spread.

Brengwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that famed wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?
Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,
Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.

His ancient wounds their scars expand;
With agony his heart is wrung;
O where is Isolde's lily hand,

And where her soothing tongue?

She comes, she comes! like flash of flame
Can lovers' footsteps fly:

She comes, she comes! she only came
To see her Tristrem die.

She saw him die: her latest sigh

Joined in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair, that Britain bare, United are in death.

There paused the harp; its lingering sound
Died slowly on the ear;

The silent guests still bent around,
For still they seemed to hear.
Then wo broke forth in murmurs weak,
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh:
But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek
Did many a gauntlet dry.

On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower,
The mists of evening close:
In camp, in castle, or in bower,

Each warrior sought repose.
Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent,
Dreamed o'er the woful tale;
When footsteps light, across the bent,
The warrior's ears assail.

He starts, he wakes; "What, Richard, ho!
Arise, my page, arise!

What venturous wight, at dead of night,
Dare step where Douglas lies!"
Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide,
A selcouth sight they see,
A hart and hind pace side by side,

As white as snow on Fairnalie.5
Beneath the moon, with gesture proud,
They stately move and slow;
Nor scare they at the gathering crowd,
Who marvel as they go.
To Learmont's tower a message sped,
As fast as page might run;
And Thomas started from his bed,
And soon his clothes did on.

First he woxe pale, and then he woxe red;
Never a word he spake but three:
"My sand is run; my thread is spun;
This sign regardleth me.

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• Selcouth-Wonderous,

The elfin harp his neck around,

In minstrel guise, he hung;
And on the wind, in doleful sound,
Its dying accents rung.

Then forth he went; yet turned him oft
To view his ancient hall;

On the gray tower, in lustre soft,
The autumn moonbeams fall.
And Leader's waves, like silver sheen,
Danced shimmering in the ray:
In deepening mass, at distance seen,
Broad Soltra's mountains lay.
"Farewell, my father's ancient tower!
A long farewell," said he:

"The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power,
Thou never more shall be.

"To Learmont's name no foot of earth
Shall here again belong,

And on thy hospitable hearth
The hare shall leave her young.
"Adieu! adieu!" again he cried,
All as he turned him roun':
"Farewell to Leader's silver tide!
Farewell to Ercildoun!"

The hart and hind approached the place,
As lingering yet he stood:

And there, before lord Douglas' face,

With them he crossed the flood.

Lord Douglas leaped on his berry brown steed,
And spurred him the Leader o'er;
But, though he rode with lightning speed,
He never saw them more.

Some said to hill, and some to glen,

Their wonderous course had been; But ne'er in haunts of living men Again was Thomas seen.

NOTE TO PART I.

1.- she pu'd an apple frae a tree, &c.-I. 319. The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the fatal tree of knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic effect.

APPENDIX.

The reader is here presented, from an old, and unfortunately an imperfect MS., with the undoubted original of Thomas the Rhymer's intrigue with the queen of Faery. It will afford great amusement to those, who would study the nature of traditional poetry, and the changes effected by oral tradition, to compare this ancient romance with the foregoing ballad. The same incidents are narrated, even the expression is often the same, yet the poems are as different in appearance, as if the older tale had been regularly and systematically modernized by a poet of the present day. Incipit Prophesia Thome de Erseldoun. In a lande as I was lent,

In the gryking of the day,

Ay alone as I went,

In Huntle bankys me for to play:

I saw the throstyl, and the jay,
Ye mawes movyde of her song,
Ye wodwale sang notes gay,
That al the wod about range.
In that longyng as I lay,
Undir nethe a derne tre,
I was war of a lady gay,
Come rydyng ouyr a fair le;

Zogh I suld sitt to doomysday,
With my tong to wrabbe and wry,
Certanly all hyr aray,

It beth neuyr diseryuyd for me.
Hyr palfra was dappyll gray,
Sycke on say neuer none,
As the son in somers day,
All abowte that lady shone;
Hyr sadel was of a rewel bone,
A semly sight it was to se,

Bryht with mony a precyous stone,
And compasyd all with crapste;
Stones of oryens gret plente,
Her hair about her hede it hang,
She rode ouer the farnyle.

A while she blew a while she sang,
Her girths of nobil silke they were,
Her boculs were of beryl stone,
Sadyll and brydill war - - :
With sylk and sendel about bedone,
Hyr patyrel was of a pall fyne,
And hyr eroper of the arase,
Hyr brydil was of gold fyne,

On euery syde forsothe hong bells thre,
Hyr brydil reynes – ·
A semly syzt----
Crop and patyrel -
In every joynt - - -

She led thre grew hounds in a leash,
And ratches cowpled by her ran;
She bar an horn about her halse,
And undir her gyrdil meny flene.
Thomas lay and sa---

In the bankes of --

He sayd yonder is Mary of Might,
That bar the child that died for me,

Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright,
Myd my hert will breke in three;

I schal me hye with all my might,
Hyr to mete at Eldyn tree.
Thomas rathly up he rase,
And ran ouer mountayn hye,
If it be sothe the story says,
He met her euyn at Eldyn tre.
Thomas knelyd down on his kne
Undir nethe the grenewood spray,

And sayd, Lovely lady, thou rue on me,
Queen of heaven as you well may be;
But I am a lady of another countrie,
If I be pareld most of prise,

I ride after the wild fee,
My ratches rinnen at my devys.
If thou be pareld most of prise,
And rides a lady in strang foly,
Lovely lady, as thou art wise,
Giue you me leue to lig ye by.
Do way, Thomas, that were foly,
I pray ye, Thomas, late me be,
That sin will fordo all my bewtie:
Lovely lady, rewe on me,

And euer more I shall with ye dwell,
Here my trowth I plyght to thee,
Where you beleues in heuyn or hell.
Thomas, and you myght lyge me by,
Undir nethe this grene wode spray,
Thou would tell full hastely,
That thou had layn by a lady gay.
Lady, I mote lyg by the,

Undir nethe the greene wode tre,

For all the gold in chrystenty,

Suld you neuer be wryede for me.

Man on molde you will me marre,

And yet bot you may haf you will,

Trow you well, Thomas, you cheuyest ye warre;
For all my bewtie wilt you spill.

Down lyghtyd that lady bryzt,
Undir nethe the grene wode spray,
And as ye story sayth full ryzt,
Seuvn tymes by her he lay.

She seyd, man, you lyste thi play,

What berde in bouyr may dele with thee,
That maries me all this long day;
I pray ye, Thomas, lat me be.
Thomas stode up in the stede,
And hehelde the lady gay,

Her heyre hang downe about hyr hede,
The tone was blak, the other gray,
Her eyn semyt onte before was gray,
Her gay elethyng was all away,

That he before had sene in that stede;
Hyr body as blo as ony bede.
Thomas sighede, and sayd, allas,
Me thynke this a dullfull syght,
That thou art fadyd in the face,
Before you shone as son so bryzt.

Take thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone,
At gresse, and at euery tre,

This twelvemonth sall you with me gone, Medyl erth you sall not se.

Alas, he seyd, full wo is me,

I trow my dedes will werke me care,
Jesu, my sole tak to

ye

Whedir so euyr my body sall fare.
She rode furth with all her myzt,
Undir nethe the derne lee,
It was derke as at midnyzt,
And euyr in water unto the kne;
Through the space of days thre,
He herde but swowyng of a flode;
Thomas sayd, ful wo is me,
Nowe I spyll for fawte of fode;
To a garden she lede him tyte,
There was fruyte in grete plente,
Peyres and appless ther were rype,
The date and the damese,

The figge and als fylbert tre;
The nyghtyngale bredying in her neste,
The papigaye about gan fle,

The throstylcok sang wold hafe no rest.
He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand
As man for faute that was faynt;
She seyd, Thomas, lat al stand,
Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt.
Sche said, Thomas, I the hyzt,
To lay thi hede upon my kne,
And thou shalt see fayrer sight,
Than euyr sawe man in their kintre
Sees thou, Thomas, yon fair way,
That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn?
Yonder is the waye to heuyn for ay,
Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payus.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone secand way,
That lygges lawe undir the ryse?
Streight is the way, sothly to say,
To the joyes of paradyce.

Sees thou, Thomas, yone thyrd way,
That ligges ouyr yone how?
Wide is the way sothly to say,
To the brynyng fyres of hell.

Sees thou, Thomas, yone fayr castells,
That standes ouyr yone fayr hill?

Of town and tower it bereth the belle,
In middel erth is non like theretill.
Whan thou comyst in yon castell gaye
I pray thu curteis man to be;
What so any man to you say,
Soke thu answer non but me.
My lord is servyed at yche messe,
With xxx kniztes feir and fre;
I sall say syttyng on the dese,

I toke thy speche beyonde the le.
Thomas stode as still as stone,
And beheld that ladye gaye;

Than was sche fayr and ryche anone,
And also ryal on hir palfreye.

The grewhoundes had fylde them on the deru,

The ratches coupled, by my fay,

She blewe her horn Thomas to chere,

To the castle she went her way.

The lady into the hall went,
Thomas folowyd at her hand;
Thar kept hyr mony a lady gent,
With curtasy and lawe.

Harp and fedyl both he fande,
The getern and the sawtry,
Lut and rybib ther gon gang,
Thair was al maner of mynstralsy.
The most fertly that Thomas thoght,
When he com emyddes the flore,
Fourty hertes to quarry were broght,
That had ben befor both long and store.
Lymors lay lappyng blode,

And kokes standing with dressyng knife,
And dressyd dere as thai wer wode,
And rewell was thair wonder.
Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre
All that leue long day.

gre.

Ladyes that were gret of Sat and sang of rych aray.

Thomas sawe much more in that place, Than I can descryve,

Til on a day alas, alas,

My lovelye ladye sayd to me,

Busk ye, Thomas, you must agayn,
Here you may no longer be:

Hy then zerne that you were at hame,
I sal ye bryng to Eldyn tre.
Thomas answerd with heuy cher,
And sayd, lowely ladye, lat ma be,
For I say ye certainly here

Haf I be bot the space of dayes three.
Sothly, Thomas, as I telle ye,
You hath been here thre yeres,
And here you may no longer be;
And I sal tele ye a skele,
To-morrowe of helle ye foule fende
Amang our folke shall chuse his fee:
For you art a larg man and an hende,
Trowe you wele he will chuse thee.
For all the golde that may be,
Sal you not be betrayed for me,
And thairfor sal you hens wend.
She broght him euyn to Eldyn tre,
Under nethe the grene wode spray,
In Huntle bankes was fayr to be,
Ther breddes syng both nyzt and day.
Ferre ouyr montayns gray,
There hathe my facon:

Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way.

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[The elfin queen, after restoring Thomas to earth, pours forth a string of prophecies, in which we distinguish references to the events and personages of the Scottish wars of Edward III. The battles of Dupplin and Halidon are mentioned, and also black Agnes, countess of Dunbar. There is a copy of this poem in the museum in the cathedral of Lincoln, another in the collection of Peterborough, but unfortunately they are all in an imperfect state. Mr. Jamieson, in his curious col

lection of Scottish ballads and songs, has ar entire copy of this ancient poem, with all the collations. The lacuna of the former edition have been supplied from his copy.]

NOTES TO PART III.

1. And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon.-P. 325. Ruberslaw and Duyon are two high hills above Jedburgh.

2. Then all by bonny Coldingknow.-P. 325.

An ancient tower near Ercildoun, belonging to a family of the name of Home. One of Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus:

Vengeance, vengeance! when and where?

On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair. The spot is rendered classical by its having given name to the beautiful melody, called the Broom o' the Cowdenknows.

3. They roused the deer from Caddenhead, To distant Torwoodlee.-P. 325.

Torwoodlee and Caddenhead are places in Selkirkshire.

4. How courteous Gawaine met the wound.-P. 325. See in the Fabliaux of Monsier le Grande, elegantly translated by the late Gregory Way, esq., the tale of the Knight and the Sword.

5. As white as snow on Fairnalie.-P. 326.

An ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirk

shire. In a popular edition of the first part of Thomas the Rhymer, the fairy queen thus addresses him: Gin ye wad meet wi' me again, Gang to the bonnie banks of Fairnalie

Harold the Dauntless:

A POEM.

INTRODUCTION.

There is a mood of mind we all have known,
On drowsy eve, or dark and low'ring day,
When the tired spirits lose their sprightly tone,
And nought can chase the lingering hours away.
Dull on our soul falls fancy's dazzling ray,

And wisdom holds his steadier torch in vain,
Obscured the painting seems, mistuned the lay,
Nor dare we of our listless load complain,
For who for sympathy may seek that cannot tell
of pain?

The jolly sportsman knows such drearihood, When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain, Clouding that morn which threats the heath-cock's brood;

Of such, in summer's drought, the anglers plain, Who hope the soft mild southern shower in vain; But, more than all, the discontented fair, Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, restrain From county ball, or race occuring rare, While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare.

Ennui! or, as our mothers called thee, Spleen!

To thee we owe full many a rare device;Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, 1 ween,

The rolling billiard ball, the rattling dice, The turning lathe for framing gimcrack nice, The amateur's blotched pallet thou may'st claim,

Retort, and air pump, threatening frogs and mice, (Murders disguised by philosophic name,) And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom game.

Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy glance

Compiled, what bard the catalogue may quote! Plays, poems, novels, never read but once;

But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote, That bears thy name, and is thine antidote;

And not of such the strain by Thomson sung, Delicious dreams inspiring by his note,

What time to indolence his harp he strung: Oh! might my lay be ranked that happier list among!

Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assait.
For me, I love my study-fire to trim,
And con right vacantly some idle tale,

Displaying on the couch each listless limb,
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow dim,

And doubtful slumber half supplies the theme; While antique shapes of knight and giant grim,

Damsel aud dwarf, in long procession gleam, And the romancer's tale becomes the reader's

dream.

'Tis thus my malady I well may bear,

Albeit outstretched, like pope's own Paridel, Upon the rack of a too-easy chair;

And find, to cheat the time, a powerful spell

In old romaunts of errantry that tell,
Or later legends of the fairy-folk,

Or oriental tale of Afrite fell,

Of genii, talisman, and broad-wing'd roc, Tho' taste may blush and frown, and sober reason mock.

Oft at such season, too, will rhymes unsought,
Arrange themselves in some romantic lay;
The which, as things unfitting graver thought,
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser day;-
These few survive--and proudly let me say,
Court not the critic's smile, nor dread his frown;
They well may serve to while an hour away,
Nor does the volume ask for more renown,
Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops

it down.

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

CANTO I. I.

LIST to the valorous deeds that were done
By Harold the Dauntless, count Witikind's son!
Count Witikind came of a regal strain,

And roved with his Norsemen the land and the

main.

Wo to the realms which he coasted! for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair,
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest,
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast:
When he hoisted his standard black,
Before him was battle, behind him wrack,
And he burned the churches, that heathen Dane,
To light his band to their barks again.

II.

That which moulders hemp and steel,
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.

Of the Danish band, whom count Witikind led,
Many wax'd aged, and many were dead;
Himself found his armour full weighty to bear,
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair;
He lean'd on a staff, when his step went abroad,
And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode;
As he grew feebler his wildness ceased,
He made himself peace with prelate and priest,
Made his peace, and, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said:
Saint Cuthbert's bishop was holy and grave,
Wise and good was the counsel he gave.
V.

Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd;
Priest did'st thou slay, and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish rite,
Leave now the darkness, and wend into light:
O! while life and space are given,
Turn thee yet, and think of heaven!"
That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly gazed:
"Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne,
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto thine."

VI.

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and on Wear, .
To be held of the church by bridle and spear;
Part of Monk wearmouth, of Tynedale part,
To better his will, and to soften his heart:
Count Witikind was a joyful man,
Less for the faith than the lands that he wan.
The high church of Durham is dress'd for the day,
The clergy are rank'd in their solemn array;
There came the count, in a bear-skin warm,
Leaning on Hilda, his concubine's arm;
He kneel'd before saint Cuthbert's shrine,
With patience unwonted at rites divine:
He abjured the gods of heathen race,

And he bent his head at the font of grace; But such was the griesly old proselyte's look, blue,That the priest who baptized him grew pale and

On Erin's shores was his outrage known,
The winds of France had his banners blown;
Little was there to plunder, yet still
His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill:
But upon merry England's coast
More frequent he sail'd, for he won the most.
So wide and so far his ravage they knew,
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call,
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall,
Peasants fled inward his fury to 'scape,
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape,
Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung,
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung,
"Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from fire,
From famine and pest, and count Witikind's ire!"
III.

He liked the wealth of fair England so well,
That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell.
He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour,
And disembark'd with his Danish power.
Three earls came against him with all their train,
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain:
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand,
And he wasted and warr'd in Northumberland.
But the Saxon king was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought:

And the count took upon him the peaceable style,
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle.

IV.

Time will rust the sharpest sword, Time will consume the strongest cord;

shook:

And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood, "Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good!" VII.

Up then arose that grim convertite,
Homeward he hied him when ended the rite
The prelate in honour will with him ride,
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side,
Banners and banderols danced in the wind,
Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind,
Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne:
And full in front did that fortress lower,
In darksome strength with its buttress and tower.
At the castle-gate was young Harold there,
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.

VIII.

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardihood,
His strength of frame, and his fury of mood;
Rude he was, and wild to behold,
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,
Cap of vair, nor rich array,

Such as should grace that festal day:
His doublet of bull's hide was all unbraced,
Uncovered his head, and his sandal unlaced;
His shaggy black locks on his brow hung low,
And his eyes glanced thro' them a swarthy glow;

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