Part 26 (2/2)

Far up the echoing dell was borne Their wild unearthly shout of scorn.

Wroth wax'd the Warrior.--”Am I then Fool'd by the enemies of men, Like a poor hind, whose homeward way Is haunted by malicious fay?

Is Triermain become your taunt, De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, avaunt!”

A weighty curtal-axe he bare; The baleful blade so bright and square, And the tough shaft of heben wood, Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued.

Backward his stately form he drew, And at the rocks the weapon threw, Just where one crag's projected crest Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest, Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock Rent a huge fragment of the rock, If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell, Or if the blow dissolved some spell, But down the headlong ruin came, With cloud of dust and flash of flame.

Down bank, o'er bush, its course was borne, Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn, Till staid at length, the ruin dread c.u.mber'd the torrent's rocky bed, And bade the waters' high-swoln tide Seek other pa.s.sage for its pride.

When ceased that thunder, Triermain Survey'd the mound's rude front again; And lo! the ruin had laid bare, Hewn in the stone, a winding stair, Whose moss'd and fractured steps might lend The means the summit to ascend; And by whose aid the brave De Vaux Began to scale these magic rocks, And soon a platform won, Where, the wild witchery to close, Within three lances' length arose The Castle of Saint John!

No misty phantom of the air, No meteor-blazon'd show was there: In morning splendour, full and fair, The ma.s.sive fortress shone.

Embattled high and proudly tower'd, Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd The portal's gloomy way.

Though for six hundred years and more, Its strength had brook'd the tempest's roar, The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore Had suffer'd no decay: But from the eastern battlement A turret had made sheer descent, And, down in recent ruin rent, In the mid torrent lay.

Else, o'er the castle's brow sublime, Insults of violence or of time Unfelt had pa.s.s'd away.

In shapeless characters of yore.

The gate this stern inscription bore:--

INSCRIPTION.

”Patience waits the destined day, Strength can clear the c.u.mber'd way.

Warrior, who hast waited long, Firm of soul, of sinew strong, It is given to thee to gaze On the pile of ancient days.

Never mortal builder's hand This enduring fabric plann'd; Sign and sigil, word of power, From the earth raised keep and tower.

View it o'er, and pace it round, Rampart, turret, battled mound.

Dare no more! To cross the gate Were to tamper with thy fate; Strength and fort.i.tude were vain, View it o'er--and turn again.”-- ”That would I,” said the warrior bold, ”If that my frame were bent and old, And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold As icicle in thaw; But while my heart can feel it dance, Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, And this good arm wields sword or lance, I mock these words of awe!”

He said; the wicket felt the sway Of his strong hand, and straight gave way, And, with rude crash and jarring bray, The rusty bolts withdraw; But o'er the threshold as he strode, And forward took the vaulted road, An unseen arm, with force amain, The ponderous gate flung close again, And rusted bolt and bar Spontaneous took their place once more, While the deep arch with sullen roar Return'd their surly jar.

”Now closed is the gin and the prey within By the Rood of Lanercost!

But he that would win the war-wolf's skin, May rue him of his boast.”

Thus muttering, on the Warrior went, By dubious light down steep descent.

Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port Led to the Castle's outer court: There the main fortress, broad and tall, Spread its long range of bower and hall, And towers of varied size, Wrought with each ornament extreme, That Gothic art, in wildest dream Of fancy, could devise; But full between the Warrior's way And the main portal arch, there lay An inner moat; Nor bridge nor boat Affords De Vaux the means to cross The clear, profound, and silent fosse.

His arms aside in haste he flings, Cuira.s.s of steel and hauberk rings And down falls helm, and down the s.h.i.+eld, Rough with the dints of many a field.

Fair was his manly form, and fair His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair, When, all unarm'd, save that the brand Of well-proved metal graced his hand, With nought to fence his dauntless breast But the close gipon's under-vest, Whose sullied buff the sable stains Of hauberk and of mail retains,-- Roland De Vaux upon the brim Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim.

Accoutred thus he dared the tide, And soon he reached the farther side, And enter'd soon the Hold, And paced a hall, whose walls so wide Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, By warriors done of old.

In middle lists they counter'd here, While trumpets seem'd to blow; And there, in den or desert drear, They quell'd gigantic foe, Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, Or faced the dragon's breath of fire.

Strange in their arms, and strange in face, Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name, Forgotten long by later fame, Were here depicted, to appal Those of an age degenerate, Whose bold intrusion braved their fate In this enchanted hall.

For some short s.p.a.ce, the venturous Knight With these high marvels fed his sight, Then sought the chamber's upper end, Where three broad easy steps ascend To an arch'd portal door, In whose broad folding leaves of state Was framed a wicket window-grate, And ere he ventured more, The gallant Knight took earnest view The grated wicket-window through.

O, for his arms! Of martial weed Had never mortal Knight such need!-- He spied a stately gallery; all Of snow-white marble was the wall, The vaulting, and the floor; And, contrast strange! on either hand There stood array'd in sable band Four maids whom Afric bore; And each a Lybian tiger led, Held by as bright and frail a thread As Lucy's golden hair, For the leash that bound these monsters dread Was but of gossamer, Each Maiden's short barbaric vest, Left all unclosed the knee and breast, And limbs of shapely jet; White was their vest and turban's fold, On arms and ankles rings of gold In savage pomp were set; A quiver on their shoulders lay, And in their hand an a.s.sagay.

Such and so silent stood they there, That Roland wellnigh hoped He saw a band of statues rare, Station'd the gazer's soul to scare; But, when the wicket oped, Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, Roll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw; While these weird Maids, in Moorish tongue, A wild and dismal warning sung.

”Rash adventurer, bear thee back!

Dread the spell of Dahomay!

Fear the race of Zaharak,[25]

Daughters of the burning day!

”When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling, Ours it is the dance to braid; Zarah's sands in pillars reeling, Join the measure that we tread, When the Moon has donn'd her cloak, And the stars are red to see, Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, Music meet for such as we.

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