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METRICAL 
 
 LEGENDS 
 
 CONTAINING THE 
 
 TRADITIONS OF DUNSTANBOROUGH CASTLE, 
 
 8nD ctijer Poetical Romance** 
 
 WITH NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 IL / il 
 
 4=. 
 
 By JAMES SERVICE. 
 
 " Ah ! happy he who thus, in magic themes, 
 " O'er worlds bewitch'd in early rapture dreams ; 
 " Where wild enchantment waves her potent wand, 
 " And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land. " 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 ALNWICK: 
 
 PRINTED AND SOLD BY W. DAVISON, 
 
 TO BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 1834 
 
 iS 
 
TK*'& 
 
 fy^ 
 
 1A 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The metrical Legends recording the martial deeds 
 and the traditionary remains of our forefathers, have 
 ever imparted a powerful charm to readers of taste 
 and sentiment. Even the ideal illusions and the 
 popular superstitions that characterize those ruder 
 ages, whose mythology of fiction has descended to 
 our own times, indicate an era pre-eminent for in- 
 tensity of imagination, poetic feeling, and generous 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 The forsaken and solitary ruins of Dunstanborough 
 Castle have furnished the theme of the metrical effu- 
 sions of four writers, whose productions, in their 
 isolated state, passed the ordeal of criticism, and 
 received the approbation of the lovers of imaginative 
 story. To these Legends, which are now for the 
 first time presented in a connected form, are appended 
 some other productions containing memorials of 
 Northumberland in former days. The design of 
 the present publication being to preserve, and to 
 heighten by poetical embellishment, the memory of 
 
VIII PREFACE. 
 
 events either unnoticed or but slightly sketched by 
 the older chroniclers ; to revive a taste for the pro- 
 vincial poetry of our local legends ; and to rescue 
 from oblivion some of the traditionary and venerable 
 associations of our father-land ; — for 
 
 " Time hath a wallet at his back. 
 Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 
 A great-sized monster of ingratitude." 
 
 The Editor has attempted to make a nosegay of a 
 few of the poetic flowers that Fancy has strewed in 
 the romantic land of Northumbria ; and, though he 
 has brought " little of his own but the thread that 
 ties them," he entertains a confident hope that these 
 " Legends of Northumberland" will be received with 
 indulgence. 
 
 J. S. 
 
 Chatton, March, 183 k 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Sir Guy, the Seeker. By M. G. Lewis . . 11 
 
 The Seeker. By A. B 27 
 
 Notes and Illustrations 45 
 
 The Wandering Knight of Dunstanborough 
 
 Castle. By James Service ... 57 
 The Coral Wreath ; or, the Spell-bound Knight. 
 
 By W. G. Thompson .... 75 
 The Fairies of Fawdon Hill .... 95 
 The Legend of Cuddy Bell and Nanny Ogle. 
 
 (Mitford) . . . . . .107 
 
 The Legend of Percy's Cross, a Northumberland 
 
 Battle Tale 115 
 
 Notes and Illustrations 123 
 
 The Legend of Shewin' Shiels ; or, Cuddy o' the 
 
 Steel. (Hexhamshire) .... 125 
 
 Notes and Illustrations 134 
 
 The Legend of Hob o' the Stob Hill. (Morpeth) 135 
 The Legend of Paulinus. (Holystone) . .141 
 The Laidley Worm of Spindleston Heugh. By 
 
 Duncan Frasier 147 
 
 Notes and Illustrations 155 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER; 
 
 A LEGENDARY TALE. 
 
 BY M. G. LEWIS. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL GREY. 
 
 " Io son l'Occasione, a pochi nota. 
 Dietro del capo ogni cape! m'e tolto, 
 Onde in van s'affatica un, se gli avviene, 
 Ch' io l'abbia trapassato, o' s'io mi volto. — 
 — Dimmi; chi'e' colei, che teco viene? — 
 — " E' Penitenza ! e pero, nota e intende, 
 Chi non sa prender me, costei ritiene." — 
 
 Machiayel. 
 
Is founded upon a tradition current in Northumberland. 
 
 Indeed, an adventure nearly similar to Sir Guy's, is said to 
 have taken place in various parts of Great Britain, particularly 
 on the Pentland Hills in Scotland, (where the prisoners are 
 supposed to be King Arthur and his Knights of the Round 
 Table), and in Lancashire, where an ale-house near Chorley 
 still exhibits the sign of a Sir John Stanley following an old 
 man with a torch, while his horse starts back in terror at the 
 objects, which are discovered through two immense iron gates 
 — the ale-house is known by the name of the "Iron Gates," 
 which are supposed to protect the entrance of an enchanted 
 cavern in the neighbourhood. The female captive, I believe, 
 is peculiar to Dunstanborough Castle ; and certain shining 
 stones, which are occasionally found in its neighbourhood, 
 and which are called "Dunstanborough Diamonds," are 
 supposed, by the peasants, to form part of that immense 
 treasure, with which the Lady will reward her Deliverer. — In 
 Wallis's " History of the Antiquities of Northumberland," the 
 castle is described as follows : — " It stands on an eminence of 
 several acres, sloping gently to the sea, and on the north and 
 north-west edged with precipices in the form of a crescent : by 
 the western termination of which are three natural stone 
 pyramids of a considerable height, and by the eastern one an 
 opening in the rocks made by the sea, under a frightful pre- 
 cipice, called Rumble Churn, from the breaking of the waves 
 in tempestuous weather and high seas. Above this is the 
 main entrance, and by it the ruin of the chapel : at the south- 
 west corner is the draw-well, partly filled up. It is built with 
 rag and whinstone." 
 
 This Romance was written during my residence in the 
 castle's neighbourhood at Howick, the seat of the present 
 Earl Grey ; to whose ancestor, Sir William Grey, Dunstan- 
 borough Castle was granted by James the First. It is now 
 the property of the Earl of Tankerville. 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 
 
 Like those in the head of a man just dead 
 Are his eyes, and his beard's like snow ; 
 
 But when here he came, his glance was a flame, 
 And his locks seemed the plumes of the crow. 
 
 Since then are o'er forty summers and more ; 
 
 Yet he still near the castle remains, 
 And pines for a sight of that lady bright, 
 
 Who wears the wizard's chains. 
 
 Nor sun nor snow from the ruins to go 
 
 Can force that aged wight ; 
 And still the pile, hall, chapel, and aisle, 
 
 He searches day and night : 
 
 But find can he ne'er the winding stair, 
 
 Which he past that beauty to see, 
 Whom spells enthral in the haunted hall, 
 
 Where none but once may be. 
 B 
 
14 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER, 
 
 That once regret will not let him forget ! — 
 
 'Twas night, and pelting showers 
 Did patter and splash, when the lightning's flash 
 
 Showed Dunstanburgh's grey towers. 
 
 Raised high on a mound that castle frowned 
 
 In ruined pagean-trie ; 
 And where to the north did rocks jut forth, 
 
 Its towers hung o'er the sea. 
 
 Proud they stood, and darkened the flood ; 
 
 For the cliffs were so rugged and steep, 
 Had a plummet been dropt from their summit, 
 unstopped 
 
 That plummet had reached the deep. 
 
 Nor flower there grew ; nor tree e'er drew 
 
 Its nurture from that ground, 
 Save a lonely yew, whose branches threw 
 
 Their baleful shade around. 
 
 Loud was the roar on that sounding shore ; 
 
 Yet still could the Knight discern, 
 Louder than all, the swell and the fall 
 
 Of the bellowing Rumble Churn ! 
 
 With strange turmoil did it bubble and boil, 
 
 And echo from place to place; 
 So strong was its dash, and so high did it splash, 
 
 That it washed the castle's base : 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 15 
 
 The spray, as it broke, appeared like smoke 
 
 From a sea- volcano pouring ; 
 And still did it rumble, and grumble, and tumble, 
 
 Rioting ! raging ! roaring ! 
 
 Up the hill Sir Guy made his courser fly, 
 And hoped, from the wind and the rain, 
 
 That he there should find some refuge kind, 
 But he sought it long in vain : 
 
 For fast and hard each portal was barred, 
 
 And against his efforts proof; 
 Till at length he espied a porch spread wide 
 
 The shelter of its roof. 
 
 — " Gramercy, St. George !" quoth glad Sir Guy, 
 
 And sought the porch with speed ; 
 And fast to the yew, which near it grew, 
 
 He bound his Barbary steed. 
 
 And safety found on that sheltered ground 
 
 From the sky's increasing gloom, 
 From his brow he took his casque, and he shook 
 
 The rain off, that burthened its plume. 
 
 Then long he stood in mournful mood, 
 
 With listless sullen air, 
 Propped on his lance, and with indolent glance 
 
 Watched the red lightning's glare ; 
 
16 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 
 
 And sadly listened to the shower, 
 
 On the clattering roof that fell ; 
 And counted twice the lonely hour, 
 
 Tolled by some distant bell. 
 
 But scarce that bell could midnight tell, 
 When louder roared the thunder, 
 
 And the bolt so red whizzed by his head, 
 And burst the gates asunder. 
 
 And, lo ! through the dark a glimmering spark 
 
 He espied of lurid-blue ; 
 Onward it came, and a form all flame 
 
 Soon struck his wondering view ! 
 
 'Twas an ancient man of visage wan, 
 
 Gigantic was his height ; 
 And his breast below there was seen to flow 
 
 A beard of grizzled white : 
 
 And flames o'er-spread his hairless head, 
 And down his beard they streamed ; 
 
 And in his hand a radiant wand 
 Of burning iron gleamed. 
 
 Of darkest grain, with flowing train, 
 
 A wondrous robe he wore, 
 With many a charm to work man's harm 
 
 In fire embroidered o'er ; 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 1? 
 
 And this robe was bound his waist around 
 
 With a triple chain red-hot ! — 
 And still came nigher that phantom of fire, 
 
 Till he reached the self-same spot ; 
 
 Where stood Sir Guy, while his hair bristled high, 
 And his breath he scarce could draw ; 
 
 And he crost his breast, for, I wot, he guess'd, 
 'Twas Belzebub's self that he saw ! 
 
 And full on the Knight that ghastly wight 
 
 Fixt his green and glassy eyes ; 
 And he clanked his chain, and he howled with pain, 
 
 Ere his words were heard to rise. 
 
 — " Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if your heart be right. 
 
 And your nerves be firm and true, 
 Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! a Beauty bright 
 
 In durance waits for you. 
 
 "But, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if you ever knew fright, 
 
 That Dame forbear to view j 
 Or, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! that you feasted your 
 sight, 
 
 While you live, you'll sorely rue !" — 
 
 — "That mortal ne'er drew vital air, 
 
 Who witnessed fear in me : 
 Come what come will, come good, come ill, 
 
 Lead on ! I'll follow thee !"— 
 
18 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 
 
 And now they go both high and low, 
 
 Above and under ground, 
 And in and out, and about and about, 
 
 And round, and round, and round ! 
 
 The storm is hushed, and lets them hear 
 
 The Howlet's boding screech, 
 As now through many a passage drear 
 
 A winding stair they reach. 
 
 With beckoning hand, which flamed like a brand, 
 
 Still on the Wizard led ; 
 And well could Sir Guy hear a sob and a sigh, 
 
 As up the first flight he sped ! 
 
 While the second he past with footsteps fast, 
 
 He heard a death-bell toll ! 
 While he climbed the third, a whisper he heard 
 
 — " God's mercy on thy soul !" — 
 
 And now at the top the wanderers stop 
 
 A brazen gate before, 
 Of massive make ; and a living snake 
 
 Was the bolt, which held the door. 
 
 In many a fold round the staple 'twas rolled ; 
 
 With venom its jaws ran o'er ; 
 And that juice of hell, wherever it fell, 
 
 To a cinder burned the floor. 
 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 19 
 
 When the monster beheld Sir Guy, he swelled 
 With fury, and threw out his sting ; 
 
 Sparks flashed from each eye, and he reared him 
 on high, 
 And prepared on the warrior to spring ; 
 
 But the wizard's hand extended his wand, 
 
 And the reptile drooped his crest, 
 Yet strove to bite in impotent spite 
 
 The ground, which gave him rest ! 
 
 And now the gate is heard to grate, 
 
 On its hinges turning slow ; 
 Till on either side the valves yawn wide, 
 
 And in the wanderers go. 
 
 'Twas a spacious hall, whose sides were all 
 
 With sable hangings dight ; 
 And whose echoing floor was diamonded o'er 
 
 With marble black and white; 
 
 And of marble black as the raven's back 
 
 A hundred steeds stood round ; 
 And of marble white by each a knight 
 
 Lay sleeping on the ground ; 
 
 And a hundred shafts of laboured bronze 
 
 The fretted roof upheld ; 
 And the ponderous gloom of that vaulted room 
 
 A hundred lights dispelled ; 
 
20 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 
 
 And a dead man's arm by a magic charm 
 
 Each glimmering taper bore, 
 And where it was lopt, still dropt and dropt 
 
 Thick gouts of clotted gore. 
 
 Where ends the room, doth a crystal tomb 
 
 Its towering front uphold ; . 
 And on each hand two skeletons stand, 
 
 Which belonged to two giants of old : 
 
 That on the right holds a falchion bright, 
 
 That on the left a horn ; 
 And crowns of jet with jewels beset 
 
 Their eyeless skulls adorn : 
 
 And both those grim colossal kings 
 
 With fingers long and lean 
 Point tow'rds the tomb, within whose womb 
 
 A captive Dame is seen. 
 
 A form more fair than that prisoner's, ne'er 
 Since the days of Eve was known ; 
 
 Every glance, that flew from her eyes of blue, 
 Was worth an emperor's throne, 
 
 And one sweet kiss from her roseate lips 
 Would have melted a bosom of stone. 
 
 Soon as Sir Guy had met her eye, 
 
 Knelt low that captive maid ; 
 And her lips of love seemed fast to move, 
 
 But he heard not what she said. 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 21 
 
 Then her hands did she join in suppliant sign, 
 
 Her hands more white than snow ; 
 And like dews that streak the rose's cheek, 
 
 Her tears began to flow. 
 
 The warrior felt his stout heart melt, 
 
 When he saw those fountains run : 
 — " Oh ! what can I do," he cried, " for you ? 
 
 What mortal can do, shall be done !" — 
 
 Then out^and speaks the wizard ; 
 
 Hollow his accents fall ! 
 — " Was never man, since the world began, 
 
 Could burst that crystal wall : 
 
 " For the hand, which raised its magic frame, 
 
 Had oft clasped Satan's own ; 
 
 And the lid bears a name Young Knight, 
 
 the same 
 
 Is stamped on Satan's throne ; 
 
 " At its maker's birth long trembled the earth ; 
 
 The skies dropt showers of gore; 
 And she, who to light gave the wondrous wight, 
 
 Had died seven years before ; 
 
 " And at Satan's right hand while keeping his stand, 
 
 The foulest Fiend of fire 
 Shrunk back with awe, when the babe he saw, 
 
 For it shocked its very sire ! 
 
22 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 
 
 " But hark, Sir Knight ! and riddle aright 
 
 The riddle I'll riddle to thee ; 
 Thou 'It learn a way without delay 
 
 To set yon damsel free. 
 
 " See'st yonder sword, with jewels rare 
 
 Its dudgeon crusted o'er ? 
 See'st yonder horn of ivory fair ? 
 
 'Twas Merlin's horn of yore ! 
 
 " That horn to sound, or sword to draw, 
 
 Now, youth, your choice explain ; 
 But that which you choose, beware how you lose, 
 
 For you never will find it again ; 
 
 iC And that once lost, all hopes are crost, 
 
 Which now you fondly form ; 
 And that once gone, the sun ne'er shone 
 
 A sadder wight to warm ; 
 
 il But such keen woe, as never can know 
 
 Oblivion's balmy power, 
 With fixed despair your soul will share, 
 
 Till comes your dying hour. 
 
 " Your choice now make for yon Beauty's sake ; 
 
 To burst her bonds endeavour ; 
 But that which you choose, beware how you lose 
 
 Once lost, 'tis lost for ever !" — 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 23 
 
 In pensive mood awhile now stood 
 
 Sir Guy, and gazed around ; 
 Now he turned his sight to the left, to the right, 
 
 Now he fixed it on the ground. 
 
 Now the falchion's blaze attracted his gaze ; 
 
 On the hilt his fingers lay ; 
 But he heard fear cry,— " you're wrong, Sir Guy!" 
 
 And he snatched his hand away ! 
 
 Now his steps he addrest tow'rds the North and 
 the West ; 
 
 Now he turned tow'rds the East and the South ; 
 Till with desperate thought the horn he caught, 
 
 And prest it to his mouth. 
 
 Hark ! the blast is a blast so strong and so shrill, 
 
 That the vaults like thunder ring; 
 And each marble horse stamps the floor with force, 
 
 And from sleep the warriors spring ! 
 
 And frightful stares each stony eye, 
 
 As now with ponderous tread 
 They rush on Sir Guy, poising on high 
 
 Their spears to strike him dead. 
 
 At this strange attack full swift sprang back, 
 
 I wot, the startled Knight ! 
 Away he threw the horn, and drew 
 
 His falchion keen and bright. 
 
24 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 
 
 But soon as the horn his grasp forsook, 
 
 Was heard a cry of grief; 
 It seemed the yell of a soul in hell 
 
 Made desperate of relief ! 
 
 And straight each light was extinguished quite, 
 
 Save the flame so lurid-blue 
 On the Wizard's brow, (whose flashings now 
 
 Assumed a bloody hue), 
 And those sparks of fire, which grief and ire 
 
 From his glaring eye-balls drew ! 
 
 And he stamped in rage, and he laughed in 
 scorn, 
 
 While in thundering tone he roared, 
 " Now shame on the coward who sounded a horn, 
 
 When he might have unsheathed a sword !" 
 
 He said, and from his mouth there came 
 
 A vapour blue and dank, 
 Whose poisonous breath seemed the kiss of death, 
 
 For the Warrior senseless sank. 
 
 Morning breaks ! again he wakes ; 
 
 Lo ! in the porch he lies, 
 And still in his heart he feels the dart, 
 
 Which shot from the captive's eyes. 
 
 From the ground he springs ! as if he had wings, 
 The ruin he wanders o'er, 
 
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 25 
 
 And with prying look each cranny and nook 
 His anxious eyes explore ; 
 
 But find can he ne'er the winding stair, 
 Which he climbed that Dame to see, 
 
 Whom spells enthral in the haunted hall, 
 Where none but once may be. 
 
 The earliest ray of dawning day 
 
 Beholds his search begun ; 
 The evening star ascends her car, 
 
 Nor yet his search is done ; 
 
 Whence the neighbours all the Knight now call 
 
 By " Guy, the Seeker's" name ; 
 For never he knows one hour's repose 
 
 From his wish to find the Dame ; 
 
 But still he seeks, and aye he seeks, 
 
 And seeks, and seeks in vain ; 
 And still he repeats to all he meets, 
 
 — " Could I find the sword again /" — 
 
 Which words he follows with a groan, 
 
 As if his heart would break ; 
 And, oh ! that groan has so strange a tone, 
 
 It makes all hearers quake ! 
 
 The villagers round know well its sound, 
 And when they hear it poured, 
 C 
 
26 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER, 
 
 — " Hark ! hark !" they cry ; " the Seeker Guy 
 Groans for the Wizard's sword/' — 
 
 Twice twenty springs on their fragrant wings 
 For his wound have brought no balm ; 
 
 For still he's found. . . . But, hark ! what sound 
 Disturbs the midnight calm ? 
 
 Good peasants, tell, why rings that knell ? 
 
 — « Tis the Seeker-Guy's we toll : 
 " His race is run; his search is done." 
 
 God's mercy on his soul ! 
 
THE SEEKER, 
 
 BY A. B. 
 
 AURI SACRA FAMES. — VIRG. 
 
A tale of enchantment, under the title of " Sir Guy y 
 the Seeker," was published by M. G. Lewis, Esq., in 
 his Homanlic Legends : that it was miscalled a North- 
 umbrian Tradition is too evident to need a formal 
 proof — 
 
 44 The child is genuine, you may trace 
 44 Throughout the sire's transmitted face." 
 
 On such subjects Lewis stood alone; and, notwith- 
 standing his wild luxuriance of imagination, his 
 mastery over interest and horror, and even his 
 genuine poetry, I believe there are few who envy 
 the distinction he has deservedly obtained. As to 
 the tale, its origin is humbly offered in the following 
 sketch. The incident of the horn and sword is bor- 
 rowed from the tradition of Shewin Shiels, near 
 Hexham. As the ship, in the following story, pro- 
 ceeds, the author endeavours to describe the various 
 beauties and some of the memorabilia of the coast. 
 
 44 There's a heap of fuilish tales about the auld castle." 
 44 Ay, but Mally, this is true, nowna !" 
 
 Dunstan Dialogues. 
 
THE SEEKER. 
 
 'Twas sunset, and the crimson sky, 
 
 Deceptive to the peasant's eye — 
 
 (Strange, ills the hues of hope will borrow !)- 
 
 Spoke a calm eve, a cheerful morrow. 
 
 But to the seaman's practis'd ear 
 
 The dying west wind whisper'd fear ! 
 
 And in the gathering rack he sees 
 
 The drear forerunner of the breeze ; — 
 
 The timbers frail, a foreign crew, 
 
 The squall astern, the coast in view — 
 
 The helm became the master's care ; 
 
 A sullen stillness in the air, 
 
 A hollow murmur on the wave, 
 
 The fearful chill'd, appall'd the brave — 
 
 Save one — a stranger to affright. 
 
 His country open'd on his sight, 
 
 With all the blissful thoughts it brings ; 
 
 And Rupert scorn'd the power of kings— 
 
 For round him sat his babes and wife, 
 
 And he had spent an exile's life 
 
so 
 
 THE SEEKER. 
 
 In realms where fortune and the sun 
 With equal heat on Rupert shone. 
 Nor had he brought of eastern climes 
 The gold alone — but India's crimes. 
 Avarice, that digs his brother's heart 
 For gain — the oily tongue of art — 
 Debauch, in swinish riot drown'd — ■ 
 The groveling eye that seeks the ground, 
 And dares not brook the look from high— 
 The frown which slaves in terror fly — 
 The heart of stone — the furrowed brow — 
 The darkling stab — the broken vow. 
 Loves he his wife ? I cannot tell ; 
 He bought her, and again would sell. 
 His children ? While they feed his pride, 
 While they sit smiling by his side. 
 Yes, in this hour his callous heart, 
 Long sear'd, is softeri'd. What is art ? 
 Can aught the soul with joy inspire 
 Like one bright " spark of Nature's fire ?" 
 " The land, the land ! Ye sluggard gales-, 
 Blow fresh, and fill our flapping sails ! 
 Ah ! who has known, till doom'd to roam, 
 How sweet the breeze that breathes of home ?' 
 And now, beneath his eager eye, 
 Deira and Bernicia lie. 
 There, in the breast of ocean, Tyne 
 And all his subject streams recline ; 
 And many a human sacrifice 
 Propitiates their deities ; 
 
THE SEEKER. 31 
 
 For dark and dangerous is the bar, 
 
 And like a banner in the war, 
 
 High lifted on its craggy spear, 
 
 The Priory glows in saffron here 
 
 To guide, inspire, direct, and save — 
 
 Its point the sky, its base the wave ; 
 
 Meet emblem of the present hour, 
 
 For downwards where those shadows low'r, 
 
 The noisy and tumultuous past 
 
 Foams on the waves, howls in the blast, 
 
 While, overhead, the softest blue 
 
 Of heav'n cerulean meets the view. 
 
 And there is peace — the future shines, 
 
 Pictur'd in Hope's delusive lines, 
 
 Bright as the crimson clouds of even — 
 
 Isles of gold in the deep of heaven. 
 
 And now the coy retiring coast 
 
 Recedes in bays ; or, 'gainst the host 
 
 Of wild waves, where no pilot steers, 
 
 Its wall of crags eternal rears. 
 
 There Hartley's moon of burning sand, 
 
 There the peninsulated land, 
 
 Whose jutty cape the sea derides, 
 
 While Blyth and Wansbeck lave its sides. 
 
 Fair sisters ! on your devious way, 
 
 Together ye have sought to stray, 
 
 Each other's lovely parallel. 
 
 From Pont to Cambois who can tell 
 
 How many a deep entangled glade, 
 
 Green vale, and wild wood's grateful shade, 
 
32 THE SEEKER. 
 
 And castled crag, and hoary pile, 
 With fretted roof and cloister'd aisle ? 
 Unequal'd, save by Hartford's vale, 
 And Bedlington's romantic dale ! 
 There Warkworth's isle and antique towers 
 Provoke the pencil's vivid powers. 
 What can the pen ? — may words avail- 
 Save his who told the hermit's tale ? 
 There Aln — her pleasing travel o'er, 
 (Cheer'd with her murmuring song} — no more 
 Beholds a second Carmel soar 
 Her banks among. The ivied wall, 
 And vaulted roof, decaying fall ; 
 Whence, solemn borne her stream along, 
 Once swell'd the lauds or vesper song. 
 The tints her clear broad waters* shew, 
 Now with a purer purple glow, 
 Than the ensanguin'd hue they wore 
 Oft in the vaunted days of yore. 
 To England's halls and peaceful bowers, 
 To Alnwick's lord and lofty towers, 
 A slaughter'd and a captive king, 
 Safety and honour well might bring, 
 And 'twas the foeman's boast to yield 
 To " moony crest and lion shield." 
 What now supplies lost warlike fame ? 
 The love that follows Percy's name. 
 
 * As implied in the British name Aln or Awn. 
 
THE SEEKER. 33 
 
 There (Nature's fortress) on the base 
 
 Of column'd crags, whose verdant face 
 
 Unscaleable defies the land, 
 
 Even as they spurn the ocean, stand 
 
 The walls that boast St. Dunstan's name ; 
 
 And there Northumbrian pride, where fame 
 
 In earliest ages dwelt. When Rome 
 
 (For peace abroad bred strife at home) 
 
 Sent her dread legions o'er the wave 
 
 To conquer worlds, and win — a grave; 
 
 Here soar'd her eagle standard — hence — 
 
 (As in one point the clouds condense 
 
 Ere the red bolt of Jove is hurl'd) — 
 
 They rush'd upon the northern world ! 
 
 < Then revell'd here that trait'rous Queen, 
 
 Whose magic power and rites obscene 
 
 Bernicia, the fair virgin, held 
 
 In foul enchantment, undispell'd, 
 
 Till, from Germania's forests far, 
 
 A youth, by nature form'd for war, 
 
 In bark of roan tree, magic proof, 
 
 And silken sail of wondrous woof, 
 
 Royally o'er the ocean bore, 
 
 And gain'd, unscath'd, Northumbrians shore. 
 
 The serpent foe of Spindleston 
 
 Defi'd, destroy'd, and bravely won 
 
 The ransom'd maid, his bright reward.' 
 
 In mystic strain the Cheviot bard 
 
 Thus sang the Pictish power o'erthrown, 
 
 North umbria rescu'd, and the crown 
 
34 THE SEEKER. 
 
 By Saxon Ida nobly worn. 
 
 Since then no conqueror has been born 
 
 So great, to plant, 'mid hostile powers, 
 
 A foeman's flag on Bamburgh's towers ! 
 
 Her walls, which Mercia fir'd in vain, 
 
 Repell'd the first invading Dane. 
 
 Is aught still wanting to her fame ? 
 
 She foil'd the Douglas ! — and her name 
 
 Invincible, and Phoenix form, 
 
 Fresh from the fire, strong from the storm, 
 
 March in a steady pace with time, 
 
 And each new age soar more sublime. 
 
 How weak her glories' brightest ray, 
 
 To the calm wreath she wears to-day ! 
 
 Oh ! could my verse give honour due 
 
 To generous deeds, exalted Crewe ! 
 
 My ev'ry nerve's extatic strain, 
 
 My throbbing heart and thrilling vein, 
 
 And the expanding soul that tries 
 
 To burst its earthly bonds and rise 
 
 To catch one kindred spark from thine, 
 
 Should fire the energetic line, 
 
 And modulate the flowing verse, 
 
 Thy praise — thy actions to rehearse ! 
 
 Meek Prelate ! Pity by thy side, 
 
 And Charity thy gentle guide, 
 
 Where'er thou movest flees despair, 
 
 The good man's love, the poor man's pray'r, 
 
 On earth were thine — a foretaste giv'n, 
 
 That man may bear the joys of heav'n. 
 
THE SEEKER. 35 
 
 Let Envy taunt the churchman's pride, 
 Thy faith let scoffing foes deride, 
 Accept, though mean, the votive lay 
 That cheers the grateful wand'rer's way— 
 A tribute from the wand'rer's hand, 
 Wealth cannot buy, nor power command. 
 
 Such were not Rupert's thoughts, I wot, 
 The boast of Bamburgh then was not. 
 The sailor's blessing was his dread ; 
 The rock seem'd on its sandy bed 
 A crocodile, huge, fierce, and black, 
 Heaving the ruins from his back. 
 And now the churning breakers' roar, 
 Warn'd them to shun the fatal shore ; 
 The cloud had gather'd, and the storm 
 Had burst, in desolation's form : 
 The pitching vessel topp'd the wave, 
 Or, surging, plumb'd a yawning grave : 
 The flatted sail flapp'd round the mast 
 That groan'd before the howling blast, 
 Which whistled in the cordage shrill, 
 Mocking the boatswain's signal still. 
 The Ferns are near — with deaf 'ning roar, 
 The surges lash'd the island shore, 
 And ever as the billows broke, 
 " The sea volcano pour'd its smoke," * 
 
 * The Rumble Churn.— Lewis. 
 
36 THE SEEKER. 
 
 A foamy column, rising high, 
 Confounding ocean with the sky ; 
 And, bounding from the dashing spray, 
 The sea-birds cleave their murky way, 
 In living clouds the skies deform, 
 Ride on the blast and woo the storm ! 
 The sun had set in blood ; and night 
 In thickest darkness reign 'd. — 'Tis light ! 
 The clouds of heav'n like scrolls are furl'd, 
 A fearful glare illumes the world, 
 Revealing to the astonish'd crew 
 Horrors unknown and dangers new ; 
 Now terror bars the doors of breath, 
 And opens every gate of death. 
 The gleam is but a moment's guest, 
 Night folds them in her sable vest, 
 And double darkness wraps the scene. 
 What may that scream of horror mean ? 
 The dreadful blaze has burst again, 
 But not from op'ning heav'n — the main 
 Recoils — an awful pause — and last 
 
 A fearful crash ! —The hollow blast 
 
 Has sung their requiem ; and their grave 
 Is deep beneath the raging wave. 
 
 One soul alone escaped the wreck, 
 'Twas Rupert. On the vessel's deck 
 Unmoved he saw the tempest break, 
 The wild uproar, the piercing shriek, 
 
THE SEEKER. 37 
 
 And the deep groan unnoted, he 
 
 Look'd calmly on the foamy sea. 
 
 Not India's sun could e'er efface 
 
 The nerve of stern Northumbrian race. 
 
 Nor strange the scene before him now ; 
 
 Not his the pray'r, the offer'd vow, 
 
 Pour'd to the saint of holy isle ; — 
 
 The unbeliever's scornful smile 
 
 Play'd round his lip, and from his eye 
 
 The lightning shafts of anger fly. 
 
 <c Men — are ye men? — my voice obey — 
 
 Let priests their creeds and aves say, 
 
 And those who cannot labour, pray ; 
 
 Each to his post — the helm — the deck — 
 Ply the chok'd pumps, and clear the wreck !" 
 He urged in vain — and when the stroke 
 Electric on the vessel broke, 
 With one cold kiss his babes and wife 
 Consign' d to fate- — with nought but life, 
 (Hopeless his dearer wealth to save) 
 He plunged into the boiling wave, 
 And grappling to a floating oar, 
 By the next wave was washed on shore. 
 His iron nerves sustained the shock — 
 He sprang uninjured from the rock. 
 As on he paced, each anxious tread 
 Disturbed the sea-fowl in her bed ; 
 And screaming wild before him flew, 
 Gull, teal, and coot, and shrill curlew ; 
 D 
 
38 THE SEEKER. 
 
 With duller flight and hoarser note, 
 
 The flapping cormorant strain'd her throat. 
 
 The isle — and Rupert sought it well — 
 
 No refuge offer'd, save one cell — 
 
 Dwelling of holy anchorite — 
 
 The lamp that gave our church's light ; 
 
 Nor suits it with our grateful theme, 
 
 To burst the cloud that dimm'd its beam. 
 
 How many a strain of heavenly worth 
 
 To superstition owes its birth ! 
 
 Suffice it, Rupert hail'd the ground 
 
 With joy where he a shelter found. 
 
 His rugged couch strew'd, and addrest 
 
 His drench'd and weary form to rest. 
 
 He dream'd. An odour filFd the place — 
 
 A form of venerable grace, 
 
 Whose mien and heaven-commercing eye, 
 
 And — all that seem'd of earth — a sigh, 
 
 Claim'd mute attention. — Thus he spake : 
 
 " Rise, man of sin — Rupert, awake ! 
 
 Long have thy crimes offended heaven — 
 
 Long hast thou scorn'd the mercy given — 
 
 Thy latest hour is drawing nigh — 
 
 Thine is the choice to live or die — 
 
 Thy wife and children wait for thee — 
 
 If thou wouldst join them, follow me ! 
 
 I'll point thee out the narrow road 
 
 That leads, through pains, to them and God. 
 
 His speaking eye on Lindisfern 
 
 Rested, and Rupert might discern 
 
THE SEEKER. 39 
 
 In vision that the convent train 
 
 (To the far-swelling Complin's strain) 
 
 In high procession moved along, 
 
 And Rupert strove to join the throng, 
 
 But could not — for a heavy hand 
 
 Restrain'd him. Fancy's magic wand 
 
 Gave new creations birth — he turn'd, 
 
 And soon a stranger form discern'd. 
 
 Was it the Spirit of the Isles ? 
 
 His wither'd face was purs'd in smiles — 
 
 His matted hair was green sea-weed, 
 
 Twined with the sand-bank's grassy seed — 
 
 His doublet warm of Eider down — 
 
 And seal-skin mantle backwards thrown — 
 
 Green trunks and hose of syrens' hair — 
 
 And round his neck a rosary rare 
 
 Of Cuthbert beads and native pearl, 
 
 That might have graced Northumbrian earl. 
 
 " Thy loss shall be restored with gain, 
 
 Thine be the treasures of the main, 
 
 Follow and fear not — take thou this, 
 
 'Twill lead thee on the way to bliss." 
 
 He said, and plunged into the deep, 
 
 And Rupert from disturbed sleep 
 
 Awoke. Within his startled ken, 
 
 Flitted the offspring of the fen, 
 
 The torch the spirit of the flood 
 
 Gave for his guide — it chill'd his blood ! 
 
 Fear has oppress'd the boldest soul 
 
 That ere scorn'd God or man's controul, 
 
40 THE SEEKER. 
 
 As he who dares all law to brave, 
 
 Is often custom's meanest slave. 
 
 He was awake — it was no dream ; 
 
 He saw it — and its fitful gleam 
 
 Moved onwards over rock and hill, 
 
 He following. Now, the night was still, 
 
 The moaning breeze repentant sighing 
 
 Mourn'd its rage, — the clouds were flying 
 
 Fast o'er the azure vault, — the sea 
 
 Still chafing swell'd, and you might see, 
 
 On wave and beach, on crag and scar, 
 
 Dread signs of elemental war. 
 
 At length he reach'd a shelter'd creek, 
 
 Where oft our fishers refuge seek ; 
 
 It seem'd a place of rest — but soon 
 
 In mournful splendour burst the moon 
 
 From the thin clouds, and by her light 
 
 A drifted coble cheer'd his sight, 
 
 With mast and sail, and oars and — food. 
 
 His strength recruited, on the flood 
 
 He launched again, but wild amaze 
 
 And terror shone in Rupert's gaze, 
 
 When on the little vessel's prow 
 
 His paly guide was seated ! Now, 
 
 It seems the lamp of hope — his mind 
 
 Was fill'd with wonders — while the wind 
 
 Blew fresh, and o'er the swelling sea 
 
 Light skimm'd the bark, and merrily 
 
 Away, away, and as they roam 
 
 In sparks Of gold, and silver foam ? 
 
THE SEEKER. 41 
 
 They tell the moon their course. 'Tis o'er, 
 
 They're landed on St. Dunstan's shore,, 
 
 And springing from the spangled wave 
 
 He enters now a gloomy cave, 
 
 The wild fire leading still the way. 
 
 It sank — but now its feeble ray 
 
 Was needless — on th' astonish'd sight 
 
 Burst forth a broad and dazzling light ; 
 
 A blaze " unborrowed of the sun." 
 
 The golden store that Cyrus won, 
 
 The spoils of mighty Babylon — 
 
 The wealth the heathen poets feign'd, 
 
 By Midas' talisman obtain 'd — 
 
 The hoards of Croesus — every gem, 
 
 In turban, vest, or diadem, 
 
 That shone in Xerxes' host, when he 
 
 Shook thy famed plain, Thermopylae — 
 
 The riches to Aladdin shewn — 
 
 The pride of that Barbaric throne, 
 
 The sun of Afric, Ashantee — 
 
 The wondrous treasures of the sea — 
 
 These and all the golden streams 
 
 That Alchymists in feverish dreams 
 
 Have seen — together heap'd, and more 
 
 Were nought beside that cavern's store. 
 
 Sapphire with topaz rich inlaid, 
 
 Emerald with amethyst array'd, 
 
 In bright " mozaic wrought" the wall ; 
 
 From the roof of jet depending fall 
 
42 THE SEEKER. 
 
 Inverted pinnacles of bright 
 Carbuncle, join'd with tracery light 
 Of diamond and of olivine, 
 As if the genius of the mine 
 Had hither called in elder time. 
 From every region, every clime, 
 His subject train, and each had brought 
 What of his realms was worthiest thought, 
 And first the swarthy power that sways 
 The rod of mineral Afric. Blaze 
 His altars now ? The ancient world- 
 Proud Carthage to the dust is hurl'd, 
 And Ethiopia set in night, 
 And Egypt from her airy height 
 Is fallen — now his tributes cease 
 From blinded Rome and bleeding Greece. 
 High on the mountains of the moon, 
 He mourns his glories set at noon. 
 Then, from their yet unravag'd homes, 
 Peru and Quito's yellow Gnomes, 
 Heap'd those ingots, bars, and ore, 
 In masses on the rusty floor ; 
 Where never mortal footstep trode 
 Till Rupert's — there Golconda's god 
 His light-embodying crystals pil'd ; 
 And here the mighty genius smil'd 
 On hardier Europe's spar-crown'd king. 
 Wild fancy, tame thy soaring wing, 
 For who can paint the anxious gaze 
 With which pleas'd Rupert saw them blaze ; 
 
THE SEEKER. 43 
 
 Or who conceive his anguish'd mind, 
 
 When, reader, he was stricken blind ! 
 
 Th' attempt were vain — I will not try 
 
 To paint his sorrow's extasy, 
 
 The heart- wrung groan, the scalding tear, 
 
 The stifFen'd eye-ball strain'd and sear, 
 
 Half-utter'd pray'rs, which, dreadful, turn 
 
 To curses deep that mercy spurn. 
 
 But, though the orbs of light were quench'd, 
 
 Stern Rupert's spirit never blench'd. 
 
 He rose and darkling groped his way, 
 
 Once more to realms of upper day, 
 
 To Rupert equal now with night. 
 
 But though the dawning's russet light 
 
 To him was not — the breath of morn 
 
 Was keen — the fields where he was born, 
 
 The scene of all his youthful bliss, 
 
 The spot where first love's rapt'rous kiss 
 
 Hallow'd his lip, those cherish'd plains, 
 
 For which he hoarded all the gains 
 
 Of industry and prosp'rous crime, 
 
 With which he hop'd, in future time, 
 
 To be the lord of this domain, 
 
 And o'er his friends and kinsmen reign ; 
 
 Those fields he trode a beggar, blind, 
 
 A man cut off from all his kind, 
 
 Tortur'd by conscience, not one friend 
 
 To lead him to his journey's end. 
 
 The peasants shunn'd the fearful wight, 
 
 " That traced the ruins day and night," 
 
44 THE SEEKER. 
 
 And many a tale of wonder tell 
 Of him who sought the hidden cell, 
 And ne'er could find ; for, it is said, 
 Seven dreary years pass'd o'er his head, 
 Then, on the eve of that dread night 
 When first he lost — the pale blue light 
 Again appeared and brought him sight, 
 Play'd on the edge and seem'd to sink ; 
 Amaz'd flew Rupert to the brink, 
 The loosen'd rock on which he stood 
 Incumbent o'er the mining flood, 
 Crumbling gave way, — a smother'd sound, 
 A shuddering tremor felt around, 
 One struggle made to reach the shore, 
 One groan — he sank to rise no more. 
 
 How many a precious year is spent, 
 Peace sacrificed and dear content, 
 How many a spotless soul is stain'd, 
 In the vain search of what obtain'd 
 Cannot one hour of comfort buy, 
 Yet still men seek — and seeking die. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 
 Note J, p. 30, l. 25, &c. 
 
 And now, beneath his eager eye, 
 
 Deira and Bernicia lie. 
 Selden represents the principalities of Deira and 
 Bernicia as earldoms given in perpetuity ; of which 
 the instances were not frequent during the Saxon 
 period. The limit of Bernicia on the south is some- 
 times said by the ancient English writers to be the 
 Tyne, and sometimes the Tees. In the same manner 
 its northern limit is sometimes said to be the Frith 
 of Forth, at other times the Tweed. It is probable 
 that, at different periods of time, its actual limits did 
 thus vary. 
 
 Note 2, p. 31, l. 3, &c. 
 High lifted on its craggy spear, 
 The Priory glows in saffron here. 
 Tynemouth Priory is situated on a peninsula 
 formed of stupendous rocks, on the north side of 
 the river Tyne, against which the heavy seas break 
 with great vehemence and tumult. Waltheof, to 
 shew some colour or pretext for the degradation of 
 this monastery, pretended it was an unfit situation 
 for devotion ; which, observes Wallis, " is so far from 
 being the case, that few can exceed it for presenting 
 
46 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 the mind with a variety of solemn objects, capable of 
 raising it to an adoration and awful reverence of the 
 Deity. The very precipice it stands on, lofty and 
 almost perpendicular, whose semicircular base with- 
 stands the fury of the waves, must have inspired the 
 religious with a firm reliance on him who is the rock 
 of ages : the calms — the storms — the ships — must all 
 by turns have furnished them with occasions to praise 
 him whose wonders are in the deep." 
 
 Note 3, p. 31, l. 21. 
 There Hartley's moon of burning sand. 
 Hartley is about five miles north from North 
 Shields, and contains glass-houses for the manufac- 
 ture of bottles, salt-works, and other manufactories. 
 
 Note 4, p. 31, l. 28. 
 From Pont to Cambois, &c. 
 Cambois is situated at the mouth of the river 
 Wansbeck, and between seven and eight miles south 
 by east from Morpeth. Cambois is a small port, 
 belonging to Sir Matthew White Ridley, Bart., and 
 its exports consist chiefly of corn, timber, and grind- 
 stones. The banks of the Wansbeck are beautifully 
 clothed with wood, and there are some fine plantations 
 at Sheep wash, above three miles west from Cambois. 
 
 Note 5, p. 32, l. 3. 
 Unequal'd, save by Hartford's vale. 
 Hartford House, erected by the late William Bur- 
 don, Esq., is delightfully situated at the southern 
 extremity of Bedlingtonshire, on the beautiful and 
 picturesque banks of the river Blyth. 
 
notes and illustrations. 47 
 
 Note 6, p. 32, l. 4. 
 And Bedlington's romantic dale. 
 
 Bedlington stands in a pleasant elevated situation, 
 between four and five miles south-east from Morpeth. 
 It consists principally of one long and wide street, 
 forming a kind of sloping avenue to the river Blyth, 
 which glides past it between two steep banks. 
 
 Note 7, p. 32, l. 5. 
 There Wark worth's isle and antique towers. 
 
 It is said by Bede, that Coquet Island was famous 
 for the resort of monks in St. Cuthbert's time, and 
 there was a cell here for the Benedictines subordinate 
 to Tynemouth Priory. 
 
 Wark worth Castle was formerly of great note, being 
 the residence of the Lords Percy, when wardens of the 
 marches, and from it many an order was issued that 
 let havoc loose on the Scottish border. Nor, at times, 
 were the wardens themselves unmolested. One of 
 the Earls of Northumberland, writing to the king 
 and council, observed that he had dressed himself at 
 midnight by the blaze of the neighbouring villages, 
 fired by the Scotch marauders. 
 
 About a mile from the Castle, in a deep romantic 
 valley, are the remains of a Hermitage, of which the 
 chapel is still entire. It is very beautifully designed, 
 and executed in the solid rock, and has all the deco- 
 rations of a complete Gothic church or cathedral in 
 miniature. Connected with this is the inimitable 
 Tale of the Hermit of Warkworth, from the pen of 
 Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dromore, in 1771. 
 
48 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Note 8, p. 32, l. 10, &c. 
 No more 
 
 Beholds a second Carmel near. 
 Hulne Abbey, the first monastery of Carmelite 
 Friars in the kingdom, is about three miles distant 
 from Alnwick, within the parks and pleasure grounds 
 of His Grace the Duke of Northumberland. The 
 interest of these monastic remains is greatly enhanced 
 by the picturesque beauties and solemnity of the 
 surrounding scenery. Seated on a sloping eminence, 
 and embosomed in venerable groves, its ivyed ruins 
 hang beautifully by the side of the river Aln, in a 
 woody and delightful solitude. The account of its 
 foundation is thus given by ancient writers. Among 
 the English barons who went to the Holy Wars in 
 the reign of Henry III. were William de Vesey, 
 Lord of Alnwick, and Richard Grey, two eminent 
 chieftains in the Christian army. Led by curiosity 
 or devotion, they visited the monks of Mount Carmel, 
 and there unexpectedly found a countryman of their 
 own, named Ralph Fresborn, a Northumberland 
 gentleman, who had signalized himself in a former 
 crusfide, and, in consequence of a vow, had taken 
 upon himself the monastic profession in that solitude. 
 When Vesey and Grey were about to return to Eng- 
 land, they strongly importuned the superior of the 
 Carmelites to permit their countryman to accompany 
 them ; which was at length granted, on condition 
 that they would found a monastery for Carmelites in 
 their own country. After they returned, Fresborn, 
 mindful of their engagement, began to look out for 
 a place for their convent; and, after examining all 
 the circumjacent solitudes, he at length fixed upon 
 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 49 
 
 this spot, induced, it is said, by the great resemblance 
 which the adjoining hill bore to Mount Carmel in 
 Palestine. — Vide Davison's History of Alnwick. 
 
 Note 9, p. 32, l. 21, &c. 
 To Alnwick's lord and lofty towers, 
 A slaughter'd and a captive king, 
 Safety and honour well might bring. 
 During the reign of William Rufus, Malcolm III. 
 of Scotland was treacherously slain by an English 
 soldier on an eminence about a mile north of Alnwick. 
 His son Edward, attempting to revenge his father's 
 fate, was also slain, and the army defeated. In the 
 year 1174, William, king of Scotland, surnamed the 
 Lion, while besieging Alnwick Castle, being surprised 
 by a party of Englishmen at a distance from his camp, 
 was made prisoner, and afterwards ransomed for 
 £ 100,000. In commemoration of these events, 
 monuments have been erected with explanatory in- 
 scriptions. 
 
 Note 10, p. 32, l. 24, &c. 
 And 'twas the foeman's boast to yield 
 To " moony crest and lion shield/' 
 The silver crescent or half-moon was granted as a 
 badge to a Percy for having taken a Turkish standard 
 in an expedition against the Saracens in the Holy 
 Land. The silver crescent and a white lion salient 
 were the ancient cognizances of that noble house, 
 and are still used to this day. 
 
 " Then journeying to the Holy Land, 
 " There bravely fought and died ; 
 
 " But first the silver crescent wan 
 " Some Paynim Soldan's pride." 
 E 
 
50 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Note 11, p. 33, l. 4, &c. 
 Ever as they spurn the ocean, stand 
 The walls that boast St. Dunstan's name. 
 See M. G. Lewis's prefatory remarks, p. 11, 12. 
 
 Note 12, p. 33, l. 7, &c. 
 When Rome 
 
 Sent her dread legions o'er the wave, 
 
 Here soar'd her eagle standard. 
 Bamburgh Castle is an ancient fortress, and the 
 site on which it stands is supposed to have been one 
 of the Castella built by Agricola. Others conjecture 
 that Ida, king of the Bernicia, first fortified the rock, 
 and erected the Castle of Bamburgh, and, in honour 
 of his queen Bibba, gave it the name of Bibbanburgh, 
 which, in progress of time, was contracted into its 
 present name. It exhibits one of the most remark- 
 able specimens of the primitive mode of defence 
 which this country now contains. It was in the 
 possession of Mowbray, Earl of Northumberland, 
 when he raised the standard of rebellion against 
 William II., when it was besieged and taken, with 
 several partisans of that noble traitor. 
 
 Note 13, p. 33, l. 15. 
 
 Then revell'd here that trait'rous Queen. 
 
 See the note to the " Laidley Worm." 
 
 Note 14, p. 34, l. 5. 
 Her walls, which Mercia hYd in vain. 
 Penda, an ambitious prince, after his victory in 
 Yorkshire, ravaged all Northumberland, and pene- 
 trated as far as the royal residence of Bamburgh. 
 

 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 51 
 
 Having in vain attempted to reduce this strong place 
 by a siege, he collected a great quantity of wood and 
 other combustibles, from the ruins of villages destroyed 
 in the neighbourhood, of which he made a vast pile 
 near the walls ; and setting fire to it at a time when 
 the wind favoured his design, he attempted to burn 
 the place. But the wind, suddenly changing, drove 
 the flames upon the besiegers, scorching some and 
 terrifying all; after which they immediately aban- 
 doned their enterprise. This deliverance was ascribed 
 to the prayers of Aidan, bishop of Lindisfern, who, 
 for the sake of a more retired devotion, sojourned at 
 that time, as he was often wont, in one of the Fern 
 Islands. 
 
 Note 15, p. 34, l. 8. 
 
 She foiFd the Douglas! 
 
 Previously to the battle of Halidon Hill in 1333, 
 when Edward III. besieged Berwick, Lord Douglas, 
 instead of attacking the English army, crossed the 
 Tweed, and in sight of the town marched along the 
 coast towards the castle of Bamburgh, which, being 
 esteemed impregnable, was chosen by the king of 
 England as a secure residence for his queen Philippa. 
 The Scottish army consumed some days in blocking 
 up that fortress, and in ravaging the adjacent parts 
 of Northumberland, hoping that Edward's solicitude 
 for his queen, and desire to hinder the destruction of 
 a very fertile spot of his kingdom, would make him 
 abandon the siege of Berwick. 
 
 Note 16, p. 34, l. 15, &c. 
 Oh ! could my verse give honour due 
 To generous deeds, exalted Crewe ! 
 
52 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 * Si monumentum videas, circumspice" 
 Bamburgh Castle continued in the hands of the 
 crown till the reign of James I., who granted it to 
 John Forster, Esq. Nathaniel, Lord Crewe, of Stene, 
 in Northamptonshire, and Bishop of Durham, having 
 married Dorothy, daughter of Sir William Forster, 
 of Bamburgh, purchased this estate, which in 1720 
 his lordship devised to trustees for various munificent 
 and charitable purposes. The sunken rocks and 
 shifting sands of this coast had been a terror to the 
 mariner for ages ; but, under his lordship's will, Dr. 
 Sharp, then Archdeacon of Durham, fitted up the 
 Keep of the Castle, a fabric of vast strength and 
 magnitude, for the reception of suffering seamen, 
 and of property which might be rescued from the 
 fury of the deep. Regulations were also adopted, 
 both to prevent accidents on the coast, and to alleviate 
 misfortunes when they had occurred. A nine- 
 pounder, placed at the bottom of the great tower, 
 gives signals to ships in distress, and in case of a 
 wreck, announces the same to the Custom-House 
 officers and their servants, who hasten to prevent the 
 wreck being plundered. In addition to which, 
 during a storm, horsemen patrol the coast, and re- 
 wards are paid for the earliest intelligence of vessels 
 in distress. A flag is always hoisted when any ship 
 is seen in distress on the Fern Islands, or Staples ; 
 or a rocket thrown up at night, which gives notice 
 to the Holy Island fishermen, who can put off to the 
 spot when no boat from the main land can get over 
 the breakers. Life-boats have been added to the 
 establishment : 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 53 
 
 "And pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
 
 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, 
 
 Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, 
 And turns her ear to each expiring cry." 
 
 A boundless view of the ocean presents itself to 
 the east from Bamburgh Castle, spotted with small 
 islands, having Coquet Island on the south, and Holy 
 Island on the north. 
 
 Note 17, p. 35, l. 23. 
 The Ferns are near. 
 The Fern Islands form two groups to the number 
 of seventeen, and are said in a popular legend to be 
 " as void of men as full of devils." They excite 
 fearful and singular interest, being remarkable for 
 the dangers they occasion to seamen, and, as Owen 
 observes, " the deadly doctrine they preach to their 
 winter audience." The largest is memorable from 
 being the situation which St. Cuthbert selected to 
 pass the last years of his life in a solitary cell. He 
 procured from the niggard soil a sustenance by his 
 own industry, and H caused the desert rock to rejoice 
 and be glad, and the solitary wilderness to blossom 
 as a rose." 
 
 Note 18, p. 35, l. 26. 
 " The sea volcano pour'd its smoke." 
 The Rumble Churn. Vide Lewis's Sir Guy. At 
 this place, in the calmest weather, is heard a subterra- 
 neous noise, caused by the flowing of the sea through 
 the aperture of a hollow rock ; but when the water 
 is agitated, and impelled by wind and tide into this 
 
54 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 medium, its operations are most magnificent, sending 
 up to a vast height a prodigious body of foam, which 
 flies off in streams of feathery spray in all directions 
 at a certain elevation. There is a similar phenome- 
 non, called ' the Devil's Bellows/ in Cornwall ; and 
 another at Bosherston Meer in Pembrokeshire. 
 
 Note 19, p. 39, l. 17- 
 
 Of Cuthbert beads and native pearl. 
 
 A name given to the Encrinites, which are found 
 
 in great abundance among the rocks at Holy Island, 
 
 and sold to strangers as the attributed workmanship 
 
 of the saint. According to popular tradition, this 
 
 holy man often visits the shores of Lindisfern in the 
 
 night, and sitting on one rock, uses another as his 
 
 anvil, on which he forges and fashions these beads. 
 
 " Saint Cuthbert sits and toils to frame 
 
 The sea-born beads that bear his name." 
 
 Brockett's Glossary. 
 
 Note 20, p. 38, l. 29- 
 His speaking eye on Lindisfern. 
 Lindisfern or Holy Island is situated about two 
 miles from the main land, and is divided from it only 
 during the time of high water, and can therefore be 
 considered as an island but twice every twenty-four 
 hours. 
 
 With the ebb and flow its style 
 Varies from continent to isle ; 
 Dry-shod o'er sands, twice every day, 
 The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; 
 Twice every day the waves efface 
 Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 55 
 
 The name of Lindisfern is derived from its being 
 opposite to the small brook Lindis. It is also called 
 Holy Island from the supposed sanctity of the monks 
 who occupied its monastery, the ruins of which de- 
 note great antiquity. The arches are of the Saxon 
 order, and are supported upon short and massy pil- 
 lars. Some of the windows are pointed, and thus 
 indicate that they had been placed in the building 
 long after its original foundation. Sir Walter Scott 
 has thus happily described its supposed appearance, 
 when the hooded fraternity brooded within its walls: 
 
 In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd, 
 With massive arches broad and round, 
 That rose alternate, row on row, 
 On ponderous columns, short and low, 
 
 Built ere the art was known, 
 By pointed aisle and shafted stalk, 
 t The arcades of an alley'd walk 
 
 To emulate in stone. 
 
 Lindisfern was the episcopal seat of the See of 
 Durham during the early ages of Christianity, and 
 had the title of " St. Cuthbert's Patrimony" bestowed 
 upon it, on account of the fame of Cuthbert, the sixth 
 Bishop, who was placed in the calendar on account 
 of his superior holiness. After his death in the her- 
 mitage at the Fern islands, his body was interred 
 here, where it slept in peace till the Danes, in the 
 year 763, made a descent upon the island, and nearly 
 destroyed the monastery. The body of the saint was 
 carried off by the monks, to whom it indicated the 
 places at which it chose to rest ; which it finally did 
 
56 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 at Durham, and where of consequence the See was 
 established. 
 
 It is owing to the circumstance of Holy Island 
 having been once an episcopal see, that the county- 
 palatine of Durham is found so curiously to dove-tail 
 itself with Northumberland, even to the gates of 
 Berwick. A legal jurisdiction still remains with the 
 count-palatine over lands which formerly belonged to 
 the patrimony of St. Cuthbert.— Vide Border Tour. 
 
 Note 21, p. 41, l. 26. 
 Sapphire with topaz rich inlaid. 
 Oriental topaz, emerald, and amethyst, are only 
 varieties of sapphire. Amethyst is a native of North- 
 umberland; a brilliant crystal called Dunstanborough 
 diamond is frequently found there. One great end 
 of these attempted illustrations is to prove that tra- 
 ditions in general, however clothed in the language 
 of fiction, are vehicles of important truths. The 
 traditions of Northumberland, like those of Germany, 
 very frequently point to the extreme value of her 
 mineral productions under the symbol of treasure 
 buried in the earth. The black corby crow, that 
 guards the hoards of silver, under the rocks of 
 Tynemouth, very ingeniously indicates the presence 
 of coal and its inestimable worth. 
 
THE 
 
 WANDERING KNIGHT 
 
 OF 
 
 £>ttn£Stanb0tottg|) Castle, 
 
 BY JAMES SERVICE. 
 
 " Return he cannot, nor continue where he is : to shift his 
 being, is to exchange one misery with another; and every day 
 that comes, comes to decay a day's work in him."— Shaksjpeare. 
 
Cf)e C&an&ermg fcmgtrt. 
 
 Those who are fond of pondering on events long 
 since passed away, and of musing on the mendacity 
 and credulity of human nature exhibited through 
 the medium of fabulous story, will find " ample scope 
 and verge enough" for the powers of reflection and 
 fancy in the annals and traditions connected with 
 the venerable ruins of Dunstanborough Castle, whose 
 high and mouldering towers are now "accessible 
 only to the feathered wanderers of air." 
 
 From the remote antiquity and uncertain import of 
 this Legend, it is impossible to decipher its genuine 
 meaning and origin. The doom entailed on the Red 
 Cross Knight for his imbecility of purpose, and want 
 of fortitude, is similar to that inflicted on the Porter 
 of Pontius Pilate for the wanton and insulting cruelty 
 he exercised towards our Saviour, when he was 
 dragged to the judgment-hall. Tradition says that 
 this hard-hearted Jew (his name is supposed to be 
 Hareach, a Hebrew term signifying the prolonged) 
 struck Jesus on the back, exclaiming, " Go faster, 
 Jesus ;" on which Jesus replied, " I arn going, but 
 thou shalt tarry till I come." He is destined to live 
 for ever, and at the conclusion of each succeeding 
 century, after a severe fit of illness, he returns to the 
 same state of youth he was in when Jesus suffered, 
 
6*0 THE WANDERING KNIGHT, 
 
 which was thirty years of age. After the crucifixion, 
 he left the place of his abode, 
 
 And wandered up and down the world, 
 A runagate most base. 
 
 No resting could he find at all, 
 
 No ease nor heart's content, 
 No house, nor home, nor biding place, 
 
 But wandering forth he went. 
 
 From town to town, in foreign lands, 
 
 With grieved conscience still, 
 Repenting for the heinous guilt 
 
 Of his fore-passed ill. 
 
 Thus, after some few ages past 
 
 Of wandering up and down, 
 He much again desired to see 
 
 Jerusalem's renown. 
 
 But finding it all quite destroyed, 
 He wandered thence with woe ; 
 
 Our Saviour's words, which he had spoke, 
 To verify and shew. * 
 
 Thus both victims in the catastrophe are depicted 
 as suffering a forlorn and unalterable destiny, — a ■ 
 solitary and hopeless pilgrimage through the lapse 
 of succeeding ages " never ending, still beginning ; 
 the same thing over again, and yet still different." 
 
 The incidents in this Legend are nearly the same 
 as given by the late Mr. T. Hastings, Schoolmaster 
 at Dunstan, with the exception of the enchanted 
 sword suddenly changing into a serpent. 
 
 * Vide " The Wandering Jew," Dr. Percy's Reliques of 
 Ancient English Poetry. 
 
THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 6l 
 
 From the similarity of events in Sir Guy and this 
 piece, it is highly probable that Lewis had his infor- 
 mation from the same source ; for the late honoured 
 teacher was a man to whom, on such subjects, great 
 deference was paid, he being profoundly skilled in 
 local antiquities and legendary lore. This story is 
 still very popular in the vicinage of the Castle, and, 
 when related, is imbued with more or less poetical 
 embellishment and marvellous " conceites" in pro- 
 portion to the fanciful ideas of the narrator. 
 
 The Author of " The Seeker" has been too preci- 
 pitate in concluding that the horn and sword are only 
 peculiar to Shewin* Shiels. These instruments have 
 always been and still are recognised by all who are 
 acquainted with the Romance. The Author of the 
 "Border Tour" acknowledges the horn and sword, in 
 the felicitous outline he has drawn of the subject 
 in question. He observes that the Castle is a very 
 striking object, and is not less interesting when 
 closely examined. It is situated upon a conical hill, 
 and around its base are spattered stones so numerous 
 and large that it might be imagined a legion of fiends 
 had diverted themselves by pounding a huge rock in 
 pieces. Nor has tradition failed to people the ruins 
 with beings shadowy and terrific. Lewis, whose 
 misdirected genius produced the " Monk," and who, 
 by the publication of his i€ Tales of Wonder," first 
 brought the high talents of Sir Walter Scott into 
 notice, has commemorated one of these traditions in 
 his tale of " Sir Guy, the Seeker." 
 F 
 
62 THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 Sir Guy, who had retired from the army upon 
 half-pay, and who, like many H. P/s of these days, 
 found time to hang heavily upon his hands, spent 
 the whole of it, not consumed at the confessional, or 
 in mumbling over his pater-noster at home, in roam- 
 ing among the deserted walls of Dunstanborough in 
 search of treasure reported to have been buried within 
 them, or in hopes of finding memorials of the wars of 
 the olden time. When thus employed, at the midnight 
 hour which spirits call their own, the entrance to the 
 innermost recesses was thrown open, and he was 
 invited to enter. Brilliant lights danced on the 
 summit of every remaining turret, while sounds 
 unearthly and terrific were heard. Sir Guy pushed 
 bravely on till he reached a portal, whence swung a 
 sword and trumpet, bearing an inscription that the 
 treasures of the castle were to become his who made 
 a proper choice between the instruments. He seized 
 the trumpet, and blew a loud note ; when suddenly 
 the lights were extinguished ; the cries of defiance 
 were changed to those of derision, and voices were 
 heard in the air, mocking the craven who called for j 
 aid, when his own right hand should have achieved 
 the adventure. Years thereafter did he travel the 
 ruins in the vain hope of his prowess being once 
 more tried, and finally became a crazed man. 
 
 There are numerous caverns in the rocks which 
 guard the coast, and the ocean roaring among these 
 may be heard at a considerable distance. 
 
THE 
 
 WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 Grey Dunstanbro' ! thy turrets eld and hoary, 
 Full well may claim the Minstrel's idle song, 
 . To chronicle a superstitious story, 
 
 That oft has pleased the wond'ring village throng : 
 To thee such wizard spell-like powers belong. — 
 j Mine be the task (no other charm infusing) 
 Gay flowers to twine the Muses' wreaths among ; 
 No recreant weeds my mystic theme abusing : 
 Sweet be the lay that sooths a lonely hour of musing ! 
 
 I 
 Where the wild sweeping billows incessantly roar, 
 
 Thro' the rude caverned cliffs of Northumbrian shore. 
 
 From its bleak rocky throne, in magnificent pride, 
 
 The turrets of Dunstanborough gleam o'er the tide ; 
 
 The only memorial of all that is told 
 
 Of its sieges and valorous chieftains of old. 
 
 On its grassy parterre, if old legends say true, 
 
 No flowers, but the daisy, reflected their hue; 
 
 Nor tree, nor a shrub, e'en though cultured with care. 
 
 E'er displayed to the sun its gay foliage there, — 
 
 Save one — at the portal — a dark waving yew, 
 
 That sprang, and decayed on the spot where it grew. 
 
6'4< THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 As a billow-worn bark, of its cordage bereft, 
 
 To the fury of tempests all lonely is left; 
 
 So left to decay are thy desolate walls, 
 
 For sunk are thine arches, and roofless thy halls, 
 
 That oft have re-echoed the sentinel's song, 
 
 When the dull hour of watching sped slowly along : 
 
 And oft have they sighed to the maiden's soft lay, 
 
 That constancy breathed for her warrior away; 
 
 And when the grey Minstrel his harp gaily strung 
 
 To melody's numbers, how sweet have they rung ! 
 
 Now, alas ! they but sound when the wild fox is scared 
 
 From his den in the rocks, — or the curlew is heard 
 
 In response to the owlet's monotonous song, 
 
 As he flits, by the moon-light, thy turrets among. 
 
 Though mould'ring thy turrets, and ruinous they be, 
 Yet one human being — if human is he — 
 Still clings to thy remnants of splendid decay, 
 Who rests not by night, nor yet slumbers by day ; 
 Unsheltered and friendless, no covert he seeks ; 
 But for ever and aye his lone vigils he keeps. 
 He is oft seen to weep, and is oft heard to sigh, 
 Till breathless his bosom, and tearless his eye ; 
 Then fixed are his steps, till his feelings return, 
 Like a statue of stone by a sepulchre urn. 
 
 Full many sweet summers their fragrance have shed, 
 Full many rich autumns their bounties have spread, 
 Since the dew of despair on his bosom sank chill, 
 And the fount of his hopes grew eternally still. 
 
THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 65 
 
 One fatal remembrance lies cold at his heart, 
 And the long lapse of years hath not rent it apart ; 
 One image of sorrow, that flits not away, — 
 One feeling of terror, that will not decay. 
 
 Twas night, and the voice of the tempest was high, 
 When darkly those turrets first rose on his eye ; 
 Fast fell the rain drops — the hurricanes blew — 
 Loud pealed the hoarse thunder — the forked lightnings 
 
 flew. 
 He swept, like the whirlwind, o'er mountain and dell, 
 And his armour flashed back the blue gleam as it fell ; 
 And a thousand rude echoes 'woke fearfully round, 
 As his war-charger strained up the slippery mound, 
 Till the summit they gained, where the dark portal 
 
 frowned. 
 
 He reined his courser to the yew 
 
 That there, all lonely, gloomed and wept, 
 And a moment paused — as shrilly through 
 Its foliage dark the night-winds blew, 
 And round the ruined fabric swept. 
 
 There, in the arch-way, rude and high, 
 Sought refuge from the inclement sky ; 
 It sprang from gothic columns tall, 
 And entrance gave to tower and hall. 
 But the studded gates were closed and fast, 
 And many a year, 'tis said, had passed 
 Since mortal eye had seen unfold 
 The massy valves of that entrance old. 
 
66 THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 He leaned him by the arch-way's side, 
 
 In youthful valour's armed pride, 
 
 And round upon the prospect drear 
 
 Cast not a thought nor glance of fear. 
 
 Three plumes of raven hue o'erhung 
 
 A silver helm, from whence they sprung, 
 
 That high had waved where, far and wide, 
 
 Red battle rolled his fiercest tide. 
 
 A braver knight ne'er trode afar 
 
 The hallowed fields of Salem's war, 
 
 When Europe's red-cross bands essayed 
 
 To win the tomb where our Lord was laid. — 
 
 He listened to the rain aloof, 
 
 " Plashing on tower and turret roof," — 
 
 The curlew's shriek, — the owlet's cry, — 
 
 The gale careering wildly by, — 
 
 The sullen dash and bursting roar 
 
 Of billows on the rocky shore. 
 
 But sudden on his ear there fell 
 A monastery's midnight knell ; 
 And scarce the sad and solemn sound 
 Had died amid the cliffs around, 
 When, from the castle's inner hall, 
 
 A long loud shriek there rang, 
 Piercing the portal's ponderous wall, — 
 
 And the startled knight upsprang. 
 With ready hand, he grasped his brand ; 
 
 But ere the glittering blade he drew, 
 Again on his ear came that sound of fear, 
 
 And the gates wide open in thunder flew ! 
 
THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 6j 
 
 At once the blast was hushed, 
 
 No more it whistled shrill ; 
 No more the billows rushed ; 
 
 The curlew's cry was still ; 
 To his nook the raven fled ; 
 
 The wild fox sprang away ; 
 And a silence, deep and dread, 
 
 Sank o'er the fabric grey ! 
 
 A glimmering light appearing, 
 
 The portal's gloom dispelled ; 
 And a shadowy hand uprearing 
 
 A lamp, the knight beheld. 
 A hand and arm alone, — 
 
 Nor form nor face was there, — ■ 
 All ghastly white they shone, 
 
 By the dim lamp's fitful glare ! 
 
 And thus a hollow voice upspoke — 
 " Thou daring thing of mortal clay ! 
 
 " By whom the spell may yet be broke, 
 " That keeps me from the tomb away ! 
 
 " If ne'er thy dauntless cheek and brow 
 
 " The hue of pallid fear avow ; 
 
 " If, all unmoved, thine eye can brook 
 
 " On danger's wildest form to look, 
 
 " How dark soe'er its aspect be, — 
 
 " Then, daring mortal, follow me ! 
 
 " Within these walls a captive weeps, 
 " Bound by a long-enduring spell ; 
 
6S THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 " A spotless maid, whom vengeance keeps 
 
 " Within a living tomb to dwell. 
 " If, for afflicted beauty's sake, 
 
 " Thy soul a deed of fear canst dare, 
 " Thy hand the magic bands may break, 
 
 " That, viewless, clasp the imprisoned fair ; 
 " If woman's tears have charms for thee ; 
 " If virtue's champion thou wouldst be ; 
 " Then, daring mortal, follow me !" 
 
 " Lead on !" — the gallant knight replied ; 
 
 " Whate'er thou art, I'll follow thee ! 
 " Whate'er of good or ill betide, 
 
 " This arm the captive maid shall free !" 
 
 Slow moved away the spectre hand, 
 
 And the knight pursued with naked brand ; 
 
 His eye glared wild, and discomposed, 
 
 When, with echoing crash, the portal closed, 
 
 And prisoned him there, alone to glide, 
 
 With a viewless phantom for his guide ! 
 
 They crossed the court and silent hall, 
 
 But desolation was over all ; 
 
 And the vaulted pavement loudly rang 
 
 To his measured step, and armour's clang. 
 
 Through the chancel's gloomy aisles they passed, 
 
 And the light, that fearful cresset cast, 
 
 Flashed far around, and far aloof, 
 
 On the pillars that propped the dusky roof; 
 
 On sculptured tombs, and statues worn, 
 
 On scutcheons riven, and banners torn, 
 
THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 69 
 
 And around their shades protracted flung. 
 
 They reached a winding stair at length, 
 
 Blackened with eld, and of ponderous strength ; 
 
 And far aloft, with heavy stride, 
 
 The knight pursued his formless guide ; 
 
 With soul resolved, and weapon bared, 
 
 For danger or for death prepared ; 
 
 Till the top they gained, and paused before 
 
 A vaulted arch, and massy door, 
 
 That, with jarring peal, wide open flew, 
 
 And the spectre hand passed slow]y through. 
 
 They entered a rich and magnificent hall, 
 Where flower-patterned tapestry waved on each wall ; 
 Twice fifty strong shafts, on a mosaic floor, 
 Supported its roof, that was spangled all o'er 
 With bright flaming lamps, that seemed to outvie 
 In splendour the stars of a winter night's sky. 
 To each of the columns a bronze steed was tied, 
 On which a stout knight of white marble did ride : 
 With swords all were armed — all with helmets were 
 
 crowned, 
 Where clustering plumes of white ivory frowned. 
 In the centre, beneath a rich canopy's shade, 
 Stood an altar with mystic devices inlaid ; 
 Of emeralds composed, and festooned with a robe 
 Of diamonded net-work ; on which stood a globe 
 Of purest of crystal, with coral enwreathed; 
 In which long that fair captive had pensively grieved. 
 
70 THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 What language can tell, or what pencil can trace, 
 The beauty that beamed in her angelic face ! 
 Her cheeks they partook of the wild rose's hue ; 
 Her eyes were the summer sky's softest of blue ; 
 On her sweet roseate lips a smile faintly beamed, 
 As it shone thro' her tears (still more lovely it seemed) 
 That unconsciously dropped on a bosom of snow, 
 Like dew-drops, that gem the white hawthorn's bough; 
 Her dark glossy hair met her white flowing vest, 
 And twined round a diamond that gleamed in her breast : 
 Replete was her form with each magical grace, 
 As suppliant she knelt in her crystalized vase. 
 
 Long gazed the knight on this captive bright, 
 
 And thus at length began : — 
 " O ! lady, I'll dare for thee whate'er 
 
 " May be done by mortal man !" 
 
 No word the hapless maiden spoke ; 
 
 But again the hollow voice of his guide 
 On the death-like silence fearfully broke, 
 
 And thus, in thrilling tones, it cried : — 
 
 " Vainly an answer dost thou seek ; 
 " No word that prisoned fair can speak, 
 " Till a fearless knight (as I now tell) 
 " With daring arm, dissolve the spell, 
 " And break for ever that crystal cell. 
 " Behold yon form, of marble white, 
 " Of ponderous limb, and giant height ! 
 
THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 71 
 
 " A hunter he, in days long flown; 
 
 " Now doomed for ever to frown in stone. 
 
 " Around his waist a horn is braced, 
 
 " Wrought by a mystic hand of yore ; 
 " Whose blast must make this fabric shake, 
 
 " Ere the power of that mighty spell be o'er ; 
 " Or yon sheathed brand, with daring hand, 
 
 " Be severed from his side ; — 
 " But fearless must be that mortal he 
 
 " Who dares the event abide. 
 
 " Now, warrior, take thine awful choice, 
 
 " To wake the bugle's deafening voice ; 
 
 " Or the giant's spell-bound blade to draw — 
 
 " (A task, I warn thee, of peril and awe !) — 
 
 " But on which soe'er thou dar'st decide, 
 
 " Whate'er bechance, whate'er betide, 
 
 " Beware thou cast it not aside ! 
 
 " Or a darker doom awaiteth thee 
 
 " Than told to mortal ears may be." — 
 
 A glance on each the warrior cast, 
 
 Then manned his soul anew ; 
 And the massy and mystic sword at last 
 
 With desperate force he drew. 
 But scarce the blade the sheath forsook, 
 
 When to life the giant sprang ! 
 And the charm-wrought bugle fiercely took, 
 And blew a blast, that the fabric shook, 
 
 And the hall like thunder rang ! 
 
72 THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 And each marble knight shook his plume of white, 
 
 And drew his glittering blade; 
 Whilst their coursers' feet the pavement beat, 
 
 And deafening clamour made. 
 As leopards burst from their wild-wood den, 
 They rushed on the single warrior then ; 
 Waving their weapons wide on high, 
 As their victim was doomed at once to die ! 
 
 In fixed amaze, he bent his gaze 
 
 On his hundred foes of stone ; 
 And shuddered with awe, when the blade he saw 
 Of the mystic sword, he dared to draw, 
 
 Was a living serpent grown ! 
 With conscious start, he flung it apart. 
 
 Nor thought on his guide's command ; 
 And his own true blade drew to his aid, 
 
 And rushed on the marble band ! 
 
 But straight the light, each cresset gave, 
 
 Was quenched to a feeble spark ! 
 And the haunted hall became as the grave, 
 
 As silent, and as dark ! 
 And first, upon the stillness dead, 
 
 A groan of anguish broke ! 
 Then next, a voice of anger dread 
 
 In hollow murmurs spoke ! — 
 
 " Devoted wretch ! whose coward hand 
 " Forsook the consecrated brand ; 
 
THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 73 
 
 « When one bold thrust, or fearless stroke, 
 
 " At once the powerful spell had broke, 
 
 " And silently dissolved in air, 
 
 u The mock array of warriors there ; 
 
 " Now take thy doom, and rue the hour 
 
 " Thou looked on Dunstanborough's tower ! 
 
 " Be thine the canker of the soul, 
 
 " That life yields nothing to control ! 
 u Be thine the mildew of the heart, 
 
 " That death alone can bid depart ! 
 
 " And death — thine only refuge — be 
 
 " From age to age forbidden thee I" 
 
 It ceased — and again through the gloom appeared 
 The lamp, by that death-like hand upreared : 
 But sight and hearing soon were o'er, 
 
 For the giant hunter dealt a blow, 
 That, prone upon the marble floor, 
 
 Stretched the pale warrior lifeless and low ! 
 Till the purple morning's early ray, 
 In that dark and dreary trance he lay ! 
 He 'woke — the pageant all was flown ; 
 The hall of state — the knights of stone — 
 The crystal globe — the captive fair, 
 Condemned to weep unpitied there — 
 All, all were gone ! and, in their stead, 
 The portal arch was o'er his head, 
 Dripping its tears of dew upon 
 His pallid brow and features wan. 
 
 G 
 
71 THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 Prone on the earth he found him laid, 
 In rude and wretched weeds arrayed ; 
 His courser fled, and the aged yew 
 Rent by the bursting leaven through ! 
 
 Full many an age hath glided by, 
 
 Yet still the castle he lingers nigh ; 
 
 And vainly seeks again to find 
 
 The stairs to the haunted hall that wind. 
 
 Each hollow vault, and secret way, 
 
 He totters through, both night and day ; 
 
 Through many an aisle, through many a tomb, 
 
 Through chapel, dungeon, hall, and room ; 
 
 Far as the aged pile extends, 
 
 From morn till eve, his course he bends ; 
 
 And to himself, in accents low, 
 
 Mutters his tale of fear and woe. 
 
 Five hundred years their course have run, 
 
 Nor yet his search, nor life is done ! 
 
THE 
 
 CORAL WREATH; 
 
 OR, 
 
 BY W. G. THOMPSON. 
 
 " Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings, 
 Wafting ten thousand colours through the air, 
 Which, by the glances of her magic eye, 
 She blends and shifts at will through countless forms 
 Her wild creation." 
 
 Akenside. 
 
The idea of this story is taken from a small but well- 
 written poem, lately published, entitled " The Wan- 
 dering Knight of Dunstanbprough Castle," the history 
 of which, as it will enable the reader the more fully 
 to understand this, I shall briefly relate, A knight 
 from the Holy Land, travelling in the vicinity 
 
 " Of Dunstanborough's caverned shore," 
 
 found himself compelled to take shelter in the ruined 
 Castle of Dunstanborough, where it became his task 
 to attempt the freedom of an enchanted lady who 
 was there confined in a globe 
 
 " Of purest of crystal, with coral enwreath'd." 
 
 A mysterious voice warns him of his danger — informs 
 him of the means he must use — and forbids him to 
 throw the object of his choice aside. Unfortunately 
 for himself, however, he did throw aside a charmed 
 sword he had drawn in the cause, and was imme- 
 diately doomed to linger there for ever ! 
 
 Happening to hear a gentleman observe that it 
 would have been much more agreeable had the result 
 been fortunate, and recollecting that the Edinburgh 
 Review says '" the readers of romance do not like an 
 unsuccessful warrior," I immediately determined the 
 liberation of the wanderer. How that has been ac- 
 complished, the following pages must bear witness. 
 
THE 
 
 CORAL WREATH. 
 
 Hail ! wild inspirer of the Poet's dream ! 
 
 Glance from thy rosy regions bright and far, 
 One cheering ray- — one soul-enkindling beam — 
 
 A hallowed beacon — a life-guiding star ! 
 Maid of the shining, star-bespangled dome ! 
 
 Grant me one floweret of thy wreath divine \ 
 Come from thy pearly throne — -in triumph come — 
 
 And guide an humble votary to thy shrine I 
 
 Together let us tread the verge of space — 
 
 Together let us wing through viewless skies — 
 And cull, in untrode fields, each golden grace 
 
 Of wild Imagination's boundless dyes ! 
 Together let us, in yon starry sphere, 
 
 Strike the wild harp to soft delicious lays — 
 To fairy tale — of periled maiden dear — 
 
 Of griffins, giants, dwarfs, and "fire-eyed fays!" 
 
 And then, by moon-light, in thy fragrant bowers, 
 We'll tell of broken hearts and perished forms— 
 
 The love-lorn maniac scattering her flowers — 
 The wayward wanderer on his " hill of storms/* 
 
78 THE CORAL WREATH; OR, 
 
 And when "th' inconstant moon" shall cease to spread 
 Her lovely radiance round us, then we'll sing 
 
 Perchance of battles — heroes mighty, dead- — 
 The tyrant baned — the victor triumphing ! 
 
 Upward again — upon the comet's track — 
 
 'Mid glowing worlds again we'll gladly soar, 
 Till softer themes shall woo us gently back, 
 
 To greet with joy the while-deserted shore. 
 Come then, bright maiden ! from thy starry home, 
 
 Thine own, adopted, cherished, let me be ! 
 Come with thy fanes, thine altars, glories, come, 
 
 My goddess thou ! — for I will worship thee ! 
 
 Who is it that sits by the lone turret's steep — 
 Who rests not by day — who by night cannot sleep — 
 Who incessantly moans to the waves' sullen roar, 
 As they welter and dash on Northumbria's shore ? 
 Why gazes he now on that time-conquered tower — 
 Does he think on the days when it stood in its power — 
 When beauty's fair daughters, all brilliant and sheen, 
 Enzoned in the robes of their radiance were seen ? 
 Is his thought on the days when it stood in its might, 
 And, aloft, on the plains in magnificence frowned — 
 When its rude echoes rang to the step of the knight, 
 As he strode, all enmailed, from the field of the fight, 
 Thro' the hall of his fathers, with victory crowned ? 
 Thinks he now of the feats on that sward which were 
 
 done, 
 When the lists were prepared, and the tourney begun — 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 79 
 
 When the knight in his saddle, the lance in the rest, 
 
 Was as fearless and firm as the wave-breaking rock — 
 His heart beating high in the glow of his breast, 
 And his eye on the maiden that heart loved the best — 
 
 Till the trumpet tone broke — then ! away for the shock ? 
 Does he hear thro* the long lapse of years that have fled, 
 
 The soul-stirring sounds of the harper's wild strain, 
 As he sung of the war-field — the chieftains that bled — 
 
 Or melted the fair with the breathings of pain ? 
 Oh ! the quivering chords of the minstrel are still — 
 And the breeze-born echoes, they died on the hill — 
 And the fingers that 'woke the wild strains, where are 
 
 they ? 
 All skilless — all wasted — deep, deep in the clay. 
 The knight and his charger are mouldering now, 
 And dank in the earth is the helmeted brow, 
 And far in his bosom the revellers prey, 
 Nor moves he a finger to scare them away. 
 The lists ! they are broken — the sward is in weeds — 
 , Forgotten the scene of high chivalry's deeds. 
 And the fair ! — oh ! all darkly and deep in decay 
 
 The young, and the true, and the beauteous are laid — 
 The glances, the sighs, and the smiles ! — all away ! 
 
 Not a lip for the kiss — not a brow for the braid. 
 No — no — none of these form the theme of his sorrow — 
 
 One subject, one only, possesses his soul ! 
 Not a gleam, for the coming, of hope can he borrow ; 
 
 And the present — e'en it is beyond his control ! 
 Look on him — mark that burning sigh — 
 - The fountain of his tears is dry — 
 
80 THE CORAL WREATH ; OR, 
 
 He speaks not — aught of human sound, 
 Save his own deep moan, is never found ! 
 No human step the eye may trace 
 Near his devoted dwelling-place. 
 Five hundred years have o'er him rolled 
 Since first his fate of fear was told — 
 And thousands, thousands more will roll, 
 Ere freshness breathes upon his soul — 
 Death, death alone his wounds can heal, 
 And death on earth he ne'er must feel — 
 No never— still to life a slave — - 
 Without life's latest hope — the grave. 
 Look on him — that red-rusted steel, 
 That arms him forth from head to heel, 
 Shone bright in fields of fame afar, 
 When banded legions rushed to war, 
 And fearless fought and fearless fell 
 In combat with the infidel ! 
 Gereddin ! what a form was thine 
 Upon the fields of Palestine, 
 When Moslem myriads quailed beneath 
 Thy war of bondage, blood, and death ! 
 Oh ! 'tis not now as on that day 
 
 He smote the glittering crescent down, 
 He scarce can scare the birds away, 
 
 That hunger leads to meet his frown. 
 But fear them not — the tiger's spring — 
 His fiercest — could no succour bring 
 To thee, thou lost one—never, never—. 
 Condemned to linger there for ever. 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 5 
 
 Death— death alone thy woes can seal, 
 And death thou'lt never, never feel. 
 Up ! forth and wander ! seek once more 
 The fatal chamber lost before ! 
 Call forth again the spectre-light 
 That first flashed on thy startled sight ! 
 Bid it again that hall disclose, 
 Where rest thy many marble foes ! 
 Draw forth again the giant-brand, 
 In fear flung from thy coward hand ! 
 Strike but one stroke the spell to part, 
 And clasp the maiden to thy heart ! 
 Away ! away ! thou seekest in vain — 
 That path thou never wilt regain— 
 'Tis lost to thee — lost, lost for ever ! 
 And thou wilt find it never, never ! 
 
 Red gleams the lingering sun's last parting rays, 
 On turret, tree, and tower, the brightness plays ; 
 How lovelily comes on the death of day, 
 As soft behind the hills light melts away* 
 And twilight plays upon the front of heaven, 
 Like youthful smiles or ere the heart is riven. 
 There seems a spell o'er nature — all so calm-— 
 The sea all stillness and the earth all balm ! 
 Anon the sea-breeze freshens, and the sky 
 Quits each bright hue, and to the extended eye 
 One mighty stretch of gloomy grey is spread, 
 Pillared in vastness on each mountain's head, 
 
82 THE CORAL WREATH; OR, 
 
 Till, thickening still, and blackening o'er the place, 
 Like death's dark shade upon a lovely face, 
 Plain, cloud, and mountain, mingle to the sight, 
 In all the vastness of unchequered night. 
 Gereddin sate him by the turret's base 
 That eve in silence ; in his furrowed face 
 Black ghastliness was seated ; his dull eye 
 Was raised in vacant stare towards the sky. 
 Unusual tremors shook him, his gaunt frame 
 Shivered with terror, and all o'er him came 
 A chillness colder than the ice of death — 
 His pulse beat languid, and his hard-drawn breath 
 Seemed parting from the seat of its sojourn, 
 Too feeble longer there to gasp or mourn : 
 It seemed as though, his years of penance past, 
 That evening was on earth to be his last. 
 Fierce sweeps the breeze along the rocky shore, 
 And doubly hoarse the rising billows roar ; 
 The sea-birds, shrieking, to the turrets fly, 
 To shun the awful threatenings of the sky, 
 That pours, amid the darkness of its frown, 
 The huge black rain in rattling torrents down. 
 Far in the gloom the quivering lightning gleams, 
 And shews the dreadful darkness, which its beams 
 Fitful illumine, but can not dispel, 
 In all the angry murkiness of hell. 
 
 Fierce broke the livid lightnings round, 
 And deafening was the thunder's sound, 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 83 
 
 And far and wide, on hill and plain, 
 In plashing torrents poured the rain, 
 When loud and lingering screams of fear 
 Burst on the storm-drenched wanderer's ear. 
 He started — ne'er did screams so shrill 
 With joy a mourner's bosom thrill ! 
 He smiled — five hundred years had fled 
 Unknown, unfelt, above his head, 
 Since from those turrets eld and grey, 
 Or sigh or sound had passed away, 
 Save the dull, oft-repeated moan, 
 Jhat feebly from his breast had flown. 
 And well I ween e'en sounds of fear 
 Were rapture to his lonely ear. 
 The thunder's din, the lightning's gleam, 
 Were mingling now with shout and scream, 
 And deep and dreary echoes rang 
 Terrific with the hellish clang — 
 While on the bleak and fleeting blast 
 Sounds of exulting voices passed. 
 Now breathed such mournful melody, 
 The mourner deemed his lullaby 
 
 Was singing in that hour of storm — 
 Anon a deeper, sterner sound, 
 Made every pulse with ardour bound, 
 
 And every muscle start — 
 And fleeting tones of long-lost years 
 Poured dawning memory's earliest tears 
 
 Like dew upon his heart ; 
 
 
84 THE CORAL WREATH ; OR, 
 
 And sorrow fled, and parching pain, 
 And freshness rushed in every vein 
 
 Throughout his renovated form ! 
 Once more he turned his step of pride 
 To where the spell-bound maiden cried ; 
 But, ere to the ruined arch he came, 
 One mighty sheet of quivering flame 
 
 Across his path-way blazed ! 
 Fiercely he drew his trusty blade, 
 And twice to pass the flame essayed, 
 But twice in vain — that mystic light 
 Might never yield to armed knight. 
 Forth from that flame a sentence rang 
 More deafening than the thunder's clang— 
 
 The knight in wonder gazed— 
 While bursting echoes wakening near 
 Prolonged the sounds of fate and fear. 
 
 %ty €)ong of tf)e ©pints, 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 Wanderer in these ruins drear ! 
 Wanderer — weary wanderer, hear ! 
 Wildered wanderer ! listen thee 
 To mysterious fate's decree : 
 If again thy mortal arm 
 Dare dissolve the magic charm, 
 Spell-bound wanderer, listen thee 
 To mysterious fate's decree ! 
 Spirits of earth, of sea, and air, 
 Mystic spirits every where — 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 85 
 
 Whether in the depths below, 
 Or basking in the solar glow — 
 Whether on the wild wave sailing, 
 Or with mystic spell prevailing — 
 Whether on the haunted heath, 
 Or in coral caves beneath — 
 Whether on the night-cloud flying, 
 Or in beams of star-light lying- 
 Spirits of earth, of air, and sea, 
 Hear mysterious fate's decree ! 
 Warrior ! if thy arm be true 
 As when giant-brand it drew-— 
 If nought again of coward fear 
 Impede thy valorous career- 
 Again the daring task be thine 
 The wreath of coral to untwine — 
 Once more it shall be given thee 
 To set the lovely mourner free — 
 Favoured knight ! be true and bold ! 
 Mystic sprite ! unfold, unfold ! 
 
 CHORUS OF MANY SPIRITS. 
 
 Knight ! be fearless ! knight ! be bold ! 
 Mystic sprite ! unfold, unfold ! 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Warrior ! from these walls of stone, • 
 Earth and air responds thy moan — 
 Be thy heart no longer riven, 
 Thou art pardoned and forgiven. 
 
86 THE CORAL WREATH ; OR, 
 
 Warrior ! from her crystal home 
 Edith may not — cannot come, 
 Till armed knight, of valour true, 
 Cleave the wreath of coral through — 
 The ruby wreath that binds the tomb, 
 Where lovely Edith weeps her doom- — 
 
 Deep within the heaving sea, 
 Where mortal art has never sounded, 
 
 Where none but magic spirits be, 
 That ruddy wreath was wrought and rounded — 
 'Twas the blood that fell from a mystic sprite, 
 In contest fierce with a valiant knight — 
 In many a sheen and pearly shell 
 'Twas caught by viewless hands as it fell, 
 And far to a cave in the ocean's bed, 
 In fay-drawn cars 'twas lodged and led — 
 And mystic legions o'er, it wept, 
 And nightly vigils near it kept, 
 And in a drear and moonless hour 
 'Twas formed and framed with magic power, 
 And with flowers from fairy-land entwined, 
 A mighty spell 'twas doomed to bind. 
 Long years it lay in that deep cave, 
 Companioned with the ocean wave, 
 And the siren song of the sweet sea-maid, 
 As she tarried her emerald hair to braid. 
 At length, on a lovely summer morn, 
 To Dunstanborough's towers 'twas borne, 
 And round that crystal circle placed, 
 Which Edith's beauteous form embraced, 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 87 
 
 There doomed for ever to remain, 
 Till rent by warrior's steel in twain. 
 If, daring mortal ! thy frail hand 
 Again may quail before that band, 
 The misery thou hast felt shall be 
 As one small drop of yonder sea, 
 Compared with that vast mighty whole 
 Which round these earthly empires roll, 
 To that which thou again shalt feel — 
 Which fate nor heaven shall free nor heal ! 
 Daring knight ! be true and bold ! 
 Mystic guide ! thy form unfold ! 
 
 CHORUS OF MANY SPIRITS. 
 
 Daring knight ! be true and bold ! 
 Mystic guide ! thy form unfold ! 
 
 Forth from that barrier of flame 
 The warrior's new conductor came — 
 In fear one moment paused the knight — 
 In thunder sunk the opposing light — 
 The voices, spirits, all were gone, 
 The knight and guide remained alone. 
 The warrior paused — his lifted brand 
 Fell prostrate from his nerveless hand — 
 Against a mouldering fragment near 
 He bent before that thing of fear. 
 Its shape was human, and its height, 
 Composed it seemed of burning light, 
 
88 THE CORAL WREATH ; OR? 
 
 And, as it fiercely waved him on, 
 
 Strode forth a fiery skeleton : 
 
 A scant and haggard arm was raised 
 
 Above the grinning, ghastly head, 
 Whence livid meteors wildly blazed 
 
 Like beacons round the graveless dead. 
 But, while in terror paused the knight, 
 Again came sounds of voices light, 
 And poured upon his wondering ear 
 The silvery sounds that banish fear ; 
 And thus the welcome voices rolled— 
 " Favoured knight ! be true and bold !" 
 Started the warrior from the pile 
 Where he had trembling leant the while* 
 And grasped again with eager hand 
 The friendly hilt of his fallen brand. 
 On went the spectre — on the knight, 
 Behind his perilous guide of light, 
 The aged, storm-scathed yew is passed — 
 The secret door is gained at last ! 
 And lightnings wild, with angry flare, 
 Broke dreadly in the crumbling stair, 
 As upward, an unbidden guest, 
 To the magic hall the warrior pressed. 
 Prone flew, at the touch of that fiery guide, 
 The folding doors asunder wide ; 
 Again flashed on the warrior's eyes 
 The rich reward of his high emprise — 
 The captive fair in her crystal hold, 
 Enzoned in the clasp of her coral fold J 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. &U 
 
 On stately couch of crimson hue, 
 
 Bedecked with pearls and emeralds sheen, 
 And sapphires, clear as morning's blue, 
 
 With bars of silver set between — 
 And, high in arches, overflung, 
 With wreaths of pearl and diamonds hung, 
 Was a glittering, silken canopy, 
 Empurpled as an evening sky, 
 With radiant streaks of ruddy gold- 
 Like heaven's own rainbow all unrolled — 
 
 The maiden's crystal prison lay — 
 An argent cloud on morn's bright breast, 
 When night's dark vapours sink to rest 
 
 At the birth of a new-born day. 
 And from the roof the bright lamps' gleams 
 Glanced deeply down in meteor beams, 
 Displaying in one mellow glow 
 The rich magnificence below. 
 Nodded the while the down-plumes white 
 Of every mail-cased, marble knight, 
 As on their chargers, lance in hand, 
 They sate the giant- knight's command, 
 Who high on steed above the rest, 
 With magic bugle at his breast, 
 
 Sate leader of the warlike van. 
 Gereddin took the bugle true, 
 And thrice a charge to battle blew, 
 
 While round the pealing thunder ran. 
 Fearfully then through that high hall, 
 From echoing floor, and roof, and wall, 
 
<J0 THE CORAL WREATH ; OR, 
 
 The lengthened shrieks of terror rang! 
 And wildly gazed the warrior round, 
 As he heard the hoofs of the bronze steeds sound, 
 
 While to life the marble myriad sprang ! 
 Oh ! 'twas a wondrous sight to see 
 
 These knights, and steeds of stone, 
 To life and action furious flee, 
 
 When the fated blast was blown ! 
 Rushed then the knight to the crystal tomb, 
 And low he sank on his bended knee, 
 With 6e Lady, dear ! from thy piteous doom 
 " Thine own true knight will rescue thee !" 
 No answer made the maiden fair 
 In act of supplication there ; 
 But the tears streamed o'er her lovely face, 
 
 And her lip was pressed with a bursting sigh, 
 As she turned to heaven with peerless grace 
 
 The dazzling sheen of her tearful eye. 
 Whilst thus a taunting voice replied, 
 " Vaunt not, knight, of thy strength untried — 
 Mortal hand and mortal arm 
 May ne'er dissolve the potent charm 
 That holds the lady Edith there 
 In bonds of dark and deep despair ; 
 Until she prize the giant's love, 
 From that dread doom she ne'er shall move. 
 Though thou and banded knights beside 
 In conflict for her freedom died — 
 Vaunt not, knight, of thy strength untried ! 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 9* 
 
 Ere from this hall thou mayest depart, 
 The chill of death will press thy heart — 
 Thy veins that swell so proudly now, 
 Will creep and curdle dull and slow — 
 The pangs thou wilt be doomed to feel 
 Nor earth nor heaven will sooth nor heal — 
 Vaunt not, knight, of thy strength untried." 
 That moment, at the warrior's need, 
 Forth rushed a stately sable steed — 
 With pointed links of burnished steel 
 Equipped from noble head to heel — 
 His saddle was girthed by no mortal hand — 
 By no mortal mind "was his armour planned — 
 In mortal forge there never was known 
 Such steel as that on the black steed shone. 
 Prone at Gereddin's feet he knelt, 
 And when the warrior's weight he felt, 
 Dashed like a torrent-flood among 
 The couched spears of the marble throng, 
 Well fought Gereddin in that hour 
 In battle fierce with magic power ; 
 And many a goodly helm was broke 
 Beneath the force of his mighty stroke ; 
 And steed on steed rolled to the ground 
 Before the raven- charger's bound; 
 And wounded knights with dying groan 
 The warrior's deeds of prowess own ; 
 While shrieks and cries of wild despair 
 Ring madly in the troubled air. 
 
92 THE CORAL WREATH j OR, 
 
 Now, every mounted foe subdued, 
 With looks that speak his gratitude, 
 The warrior from his steed descends, 
 And to the tomb of Edith bends, 
 To smite with trusty brand so true 
 The fated wreath of coral through — 
 He struck — but his blows fell wide on air- 
 New arms — new foes were gathering there ! 
 Before the wondering warrior's eyes 
 A thousand hostile spears arise- 
 But in his breast for every spear . 
 A heart is glowing void of fear — 
 And on that rich and gorgeous bed, 
 In writhing, slimy circles spread, 
 With eyes out-flaming vengeful ire, 
 And forked tongues of venomed fire, 
 A thousand hideous serpents play, 
 To keep the victor-knight away — 
 But though each bite were valour's bane — 
 Though every fang should gore a vein — 
 And poison's deepest, deadliest flood 
 Should mingle with his dearest blood — 
 His last, fell blow shall be for thee, 
 Fair maid ! and for thy liberty ! 
 On pressed the knight — down shrank the spears- 
 In vain each hissing head uprears — 
 In vain around his limbs they twine- 
 Shorn, hacked to atoms, they resign 
 The combat to the mighty one, 
 Who, sprent with slaughter, rushes on, 
 
THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 9% 
 
 Amid the dying, venomed crew, 
 And cleaves the wreath of coral through ! 
 While peals again the stirring sound 
 Of the angry thunder's rushing bound— 
 And gleams again the lightning's glare, 
 Amid the shrieks of mad despair — 
 And sinks the slaughtered ruins — all 
 That erst remained of that bright hall — 
 The wreath, the globe, the beauteous bed — 
 All darkened, shivered, shrunk, and sped ! 
 All — save the knight and his peerless fair — 
 The magic fate they may not share. 
 
 'Tis past — the magic spell is o'er, 
 
 And lovely Edith weeps no more 
 
 In the coral clasp of her circled dome, 
 
 Like a seraph in a crystal tomb. 
 
 The spell is broke — and the years long fled 
 
 Are but as so many moments sped — 
 
 Upon each form nor age nor blight 
 
 Appears revealed to mortal sight — 
 
 Of all the nights of pain and terror, 
 
 Of all the scenes of grief and horror, 
 
 Gereddin, in thy portly mien, 
 
 No transient trace can now be seen — 
 
 And Edith's roses bloom as fair 
 
 As she had ne'er been prisoned there — 
 
 As bright and free is her blue eyes' beam, 
 
 As day's first, lucid, orient stream — 
 
94 
 
 THE CORAL WREATH. 
 
 As bland and blithe is the dimpling smile, 
 As pure, as sweet, as 'reft of guile, 
 As that which first on Adam broke, 
 When from his earliest sleep he 'woke, 
 'Mid verdant trees and blooming flowers, 
 And met his Eve in Eden's bowers ! 
 
THE FAIRIES 
 
 OF 
 
 FAWDOI HILL 
 
 " Oh ! well LJtnow the enchanting mien 
 
 Of my lov'd muse, my Fairy Queen ! 
 
 Her rokley of green with its sparry hue, 
 
 Its warp of the moon-beam, and weft of the dew ; 
 
 Her smile, where a thousand witcheries play, 
 
 And her eye that steals the soul away." 
 
 Hogg. 
 

€i)e Mixits of J^atDUon fyill. 
 
 Popular tradition has evinced her faithfulness in 
 transmitting from age to age the superstitious belief 
 that Fawdon Hill is the royal residence of the 
 " Queen Mab" of Northumberland and all her elfin 
 courtiers, and that the picturesque grounds adjacent 
 are the scenes of their moonlight gambols and mid- 
 night revelries. Legends still existing among the 
 peasantry represent the mystical attendants of ' fancy's 
 midwife* as being very diminutive in stature, with fea- 
 tures delicate, complexion fair, expressive of infantine 
 innocence and beauty, and always decked in pea- 
 green costume. Others again partake of a portraiture 
 altogether dissimilar ; being deemed cunning, deceit- 
 ful, selfish, and cruel ; while the disposition of the 
 first exhibits much activity, intelligence, and kind- 
 ness. They are divided into tribes or castes, each 
 exhibiting a distinct character, manifested by the 
 single-hearted acts of benevolence in some, and in 
 the uncouth oddity and mischievous pranks of others. 
 Their abodes are supposed to be in the bowels of 
 mountains, hollow rocks and caves, shades, and soli- 
 tudes, far removed from the busy haunts of man. 
 
 All the theories that have been started to explain 
 the origin of these preternatural beings have termi- 
 nated in this common hypothesis, that they form an 
 intermediate link between man and the spirits of 
 air. If the tales of the credulous < ' can be in aught 
 believed," they were introduced into Britain from 
 Palestine by the Crusaders. Yet we read that our 
 
98 THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL, 
 
 Saxon ancestors believed in their existence long before 
 they left their German forests. The popular belief 
 of northern nations is that they are spirits out of the 
 pale of salvation, as noticed in a Swedish Legend. 
 
 " Thine airy form is drooping, 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with dree ; 
 And torrents thou wilt weep poor fay, 
 
 No Saviour lives for thee." 
 
 The following poetical picture, illustrative of the 
 habits and avocations of these " righte merrie" elves, 
 will afford some interesting amusement to trace the 
 whimsical opinions of the Poets concerning them. 
 
 " Come, follow, follow me, 
 
 You, fairy elves that be, 
 
 Which circle on the green, 
 
 Come follow Mab your queen. 
 Hand in hand let's dance around, 
 For this place is fairy ground. 
 
 Upon a mushroom's head, 
 
 Our table-cloth we spread ; 
 
 A grain of rye, or wheat, 
 
 Is manchet, which we eat ; 
 Pearly drops of dew we drink 
 In acorn cups fill'd to the brink. 
 
 The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, 
 
 Serve for our minstrelsie ; 
 
 Grace said, we dance awhile, 
 
 And so the time beguile; 
 And if the moon doth hide her head, 
 The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 
 
 On tops of dewy grass, 
 
 So nimbly do we pass, 
 
 The young and tender stalk 
 
 Ne'er bends when we do walk ; 
 Yet in the morning may be seen 
 Where we the night before have been." 
 
THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL. [)() 
 
 u Some flit the sluttish housewife's couch around, 
 
 And pinch and plague her while in slumber bound, 
 
 Or lead with meteor fire the pilgrim wrong* 
 
 Or glide with corse-lights churchyard's paths along. 
 
 Or from its cradle steal the new-born heir, 
 
 To place some fairy's idiot offspring there, 
 
 Or lure young wanton knights to join their band. 
 
 And live the pleasant life of elfin land, 
 
 Till seven swift years elapsed (so legends tell) 
 
 Their souls discharge king Oberon's debt to hell." 
 
 Vide the Tale of Tarn Lin. 
 " But others gentle, sweeter tasks pursue, 
 These quaff in acorn cups the nectarine's dew, 
 Which those by fire-flies borne through ether soar. 
 Or secret ocean's coral groves explore, 
 Or plunder the wild bee, or gild their plumes 
 With gleam of moonshine ; or condense perfumes 
 Of power in spells, from flowery banks, or play 
 (Close hid in heather bells) a thousand frolics gay, 
 And bid the wings of love waft their blithe hours 
 away." Oberon's Henchman. 
 
 Corbet supposes these little creatures to have fled 
 from this country during the progress of the Eliza- 
 bethean march of intellect, and to have taken refuse in 
 some other kingdom "more friendly to supernatural 
 spirits, and more grateful for supernatural assistance." 
 Chaucer thus accounts for their disappearance: — 
 " In olde dayes of the king Artour, 
 Of which that Bretons speken gret honour, 
 All was this lond fulfilled of faerie ; 
 The elf-quene with hire joly compagnie, 
 Danced ful oft in many a grene mede. 
 This was the old opinion as I rede ; 
 I speke of many hundred yeres ago ; 
 But now can no man see non elves mo, 
 For now the grete charitee and prayeres 
 Of limitoures * and other holy freres, 
 
 * Begging Friars. 
 
100 THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL. 
 
 That serchen every land and every streme, 
 As thikke as motes in the sonne beme, 
 Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures, 
 Citees and burghes, castles high, and toures, 
 Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies, 
 This maketh that there ben no faeries." 
 
 The following erudite extract from the Quarterly 
 Review displays a classical illustration of the close 
 affinity these local tales of supernatural agency bear 
 to those of the mythic or poetic age, when popular 
 mythology diffused itself over all nations from " Indus 
 to the Pole." 
 
 " When the fables of popular superstition are con- 
 templated in detail, we discover a singular degree of 
 uniformity in that realm wherein most diversity 
 might be expected — in the ideal world. Imagination 
 seems to possess a boundless power of creation and 
 combination ; and yet the beings which have their 
 existence only in fancy when freely called into action, 
 in every climate and every age, betray so close an 
 affinity to one another, that it is scarcely possible to 
 avoid admitting that imagination had little share in 
 giving them their shape and form. Their attributes 
 and character are impressed by tokens, proving that 
 they resulted rather from a succession of doctrines 
 than from invention ; that they were traditive, and 
 not arbitrary. The vague credulity of the peasant 
 agrees with the systematic mythology of the sages 
 of primeval times. Nations whom the ocean separates 
 are united by their delusions. The village gossip 
 recognises, though in ignorance, the divinities of 
 classical antiquity, and the Hamadryads of Greece 
 and the Elves of Scandinavia join the phantoms who 
 swarm around us. There is much reason to suppose 
 that the character of the fairy has arisen from the 
 amalgamation of Roman, Celtic, Gothic, and Oriental 
 mythology," 
 
THE 
 
 FAIKIES OF FAWDON HILL. 
 
 Coy spring to summer's hot embrace 
 
 Had yielded; and his jocund face 
 
 Was flushed with triumph ; she, frail thing. 
 
 Reclined on Zephyr's filmy wing, 
 
 Again aspired her native heaven, 
 
 And melted in the blaze of even ! 
 
 That form dissolved in ecstacy, 
 
 Which, like her own Anemone, 
 
 Was born of blushes and a sigh. 
 
 Then from the blue thin-clouded sky, 
 
 Like oil-drops poured into a fleece, 
 
 The scent- distilling dews of peace 
 
 And promise fell. — Then burst around 
 
 Of nature's joy the smother'd sound ; 
 
 Then summer laugh'd ; the hour was mirth, 
 
 Heaven, light, air, odour ; and green earth 
 
 One shower of blossoms ; robed as fine 
 
 As the star-spangled jessamine. 
 
 Rolling o'er grassy fields were seen 
 
 Alternate waves of grey and green, 
 
 As the breeze swept, with grateful motion, 
 
 The bosom of the mimic ocean. 
 
102 THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL, 
 
 The last pale primrose from the nook 
 Dropp'd into the diminished brook ; 
 The sheep had lost their winter's coat, 
 And hoarser grew the cuckoo's note, 
 And scarce one patch of winter's snow 
 On Cheviot's side appear'd to glow. 
 But mossy hills and silent glens, 
 
 Where solitary shepherds stray, 
 And far-receding vales and dens, 
 
 Where Breamish bursts his foaming way, 
 Invite the poet to explore 
 
 The rocks which Linhope leaps in pride, 
 The craggy brow of huge Dunmore, 
 
 And high cairn-crested Hedgley's side. 
 
 The sunbeam burst on Brandon Hall, 
 
 And burnish'd the windows and silver'd the wall ; 
 
 And the crimson light of morning fell 
 
 On Fawdon Hills, where the Fairies dwell. 
 
 Soft as the ray of the crescent moon, 
 
 That hallows the Fairies' festive noon, — 
 
 The noon of night, when the clear blue sky 
 
 And numberless stars inverted lie 
 
 On the breast of the scarcely-stirring stream, 
 
 When waked by the elfin-star's dawning beam, 
 
 The little green hunter winds his horn, 
 
 And dew-drops start from the snow -spangled 
 
 thorn • 
 For within each cup of its blossom lay, 
 Nestled from day-light, a minikin fay. 
 
THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL. 103 
 
 Some start, as the notes on the distance swell, 
 
 Like drops of gold from the cowslip bell ; 
 
 At the blast of the horn they spring to the ground, 
 
 And gather the little green hunters round. 
 
 The hunters' horn again is sounded, 
 
 And every fay to its toil hath bounded ; 
 
 Blue, green, and pink, and brown and grey, 
 
 Hors'd on their butterflies, gallop away. 
 
 Mock violets hid in the wood- skirted dell, 
 
 Forget-me-not, heart's- ease, and hyacinths blue, 
 Heath flower, and eyebright, and slender harebell, 
 
 And every floweret of azure hue 
 Is stript of its leaflets as fast as thought, 
 And pile on pile to the hunter is brought ; 
 And the hill is carpeted round with a zone, 
 Like the pale Tarquoise or the Lazuli stone. 
 One troop has frozen big drops of dew, 
 And spangled with diamonds the girdle of blue; 
 A second has gather'd the glow-worms' light, 
 And set them like stars in the temple of night, 
 Till the sky above, and the sky below, 
 Appear with similar fires of glow. 
 The horn of the hunter is sounded again, 
 And Fawdon Hill is cleft in twain ; 
 And the Fairy Queen from her porphyry bower, 
 Surrounded by every vassal power, 
 Comes like the crescented queen of the hour. 
 The lubberly Robin and Brownie quaint, 
 Spirits whose pencils the rainbows paint, 
 
104 THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL. 
 
 Nymphs of the valley, wood, mountain, and stream, 
 Shadows that oft in a lover's day-dream 
 Assume a fair and palpable form; 
 Spirits that ride on the wings of the storm, 
 And their harps to the voice of the north attune ; 
 Elves that bathe in the tears of the moon, 
 And the subtler essences still, that ply 
 Their tasks in the midst, between earth and sky, 
 That draw the meteor's fiery car, 
 And catch in its flight the falling star, 
 Which is set, as the gifted eye is seen 
 In the crown that encircles the brow of their 
 queen. 
 
 The circle is formed, and the revels begun, 
 The queen is its centre, and, bright as the sun, 
 She sits in her floating pavilion of gold, 
 Her vassals to honour, their sports to behold. 
 The graver spirits stand round the throne, 
 And Puck and the Brownies within the zone. 
 
 Then oft as the circle sweeps round the hill, 
 They cheat the most agile fay of his due ; 
 
 And the mirth and the music grow louder still, 
 As these elves their sportive pranks pursue. 
 
 Winning the queen's approving smile 
 
 By quips and cranks, or some whimsical wile ; 
 
 And raising the laughter loud and high, 
 
 Till pale grew each twinkling torch of the sky. 
 
THE FAIRIES OF FAWDON HILL. 105 
 
 And the little green hunter sounds his horn, 
 To warn the queen of approaching morn ; 
 Then the porphyry bower is closed again, 
 On the Fairy Queen and her elfin train. 
 
 Doubtest thou, maiden, the truth of my theme ? — 
 
 These eyes have witnessed the scene — in a dream — 
 
 On Fawdon Hill I stood by the thorn, 
 
 When the little green hunter sounded his horn ; 
 
 I saw the spirits encircle the hill, 
 
 And their laugh rings in my fancy still. 
 
 I sigh'd to shuffle this mortal coil, 
 
 And share in their revels, and lighten their toils. 
 
 A gentle pressure dissolv'd the charm — 
 
 The vision had vanish'd — she hung on my arm. 
 
 One sparkling glance from a mortal eye 
 
 Banish' d my spiritual ecstacy. 
 
 Ah ! happier far with that mortal alone 
 
 In the flow'ry vale when the breeze was still, 
 
 Than to form a link of the glittering zone 
 That circled the bosom of Fawdon Hill. 
 
THE LEGEND 
 
 OF 
 
 CUDDY BELL 
 
 AND 
 
 NANNY OGLE. 
 
 (MITFORB.) 
 
 " Tall, like the poplar, was his size, 
 
 Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks, 
 
 Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes, 
 Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks !" 
 
 Col man. 
 
€t)e Hegenti of Ctt&trp 33elL 
 
 The following Legend is illustrative of the popular 
 opinions and apprehensions that pervaded the minds 
 of almost all classes of society during the early and 
 middle ages; namely, a firm belief in ghosts, hob- 
 goblins, and the whole tribe of white spirits and 
 black, blue spirits and grey, that at will could assume 
 all forms, dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, as 
 the caprice of the moment influenced their spiritual 
 choice. In those times it was customary, during "the 
 piping times of peace," for squires, pages, and not 
 unfrequently grooms and the other retainers that 
 formed the dramatis personce of a baron's retinue, to 
 assemble around the log-fire blazing in the great hall 
 of the castle, after the sports and exercises of the day 
 were ended ,■ and, to while away the tedious hours 
 that intervened between even-fall and night's cheer- 
 less noon, they had recourse to story-telling. Local 
 romances, and the most terrific traditionary tales 
 peculiar to the neighbourhood, were eagerly sought 
 after, and attentively listened to, till dread " caused 
 each particular hair to stand erect" upon the heads 
 of the fear-stricken auditors, who would start, even 
 at their own elongated shadows dancing among the 
 rusted swords and lances, stags' horns, and other 
 trophies of the chase, that adorned the vacant spaces 
 
 K 
 
110 LEGEND OF CUDDY BELL. 
 
 of the smoke-dyed walls of the spacious apartments. 
 Meanwhile the noble flagon and his trusty attendant 
 — yclept Black Jack — were in constant circulation. 
 Yet such are the characteristics that mark an un- 
 tutored people, that these men in real difficulties 
 evinced an unusual degree of courage and chivalrous 
 enterprise. If the bugle sounded a foray o'er the 
 Border, or announced the approach of the foemen, 
 they hastily sped to the place of rendezvous ; and, 
 regardless of danger and reckless of life, they would 
 grapple the enemy with the same alacrity and en- 
 thusiasm as evinced by schoolboys on the projected 
 despoliation of a hornet's nest, or the dispersion of 
 predatory rooks from the harvest fields of the hus- 
 bandman. 
 
 The pusillanimous yet valiant Cuddy has a literary 
 companion possessing an analogous character, in the 
 attendant on the Count in Lodoiska, who quaintly 
 observed, when his master ridiculed him for his lack 
 of valour, " I can fight the devil by day-light, but a 
 ghost in the dark is quite a different thing." 
 
 'The Stanners,' mentioned in p. 112, are portions 
 of ground on the margin of the Wansbeck, near to 
 Morpeth. The appellation Stanners is used pro- 
 vincially to denote those small stones and gravel 
 within the channel of a river, which are occasionally 
 left dry. The word Stanners is derived from the 
 Gothic Stenoer, composed of Sten, a stone, and 
 oer, gravel. 
 
 
THE 
 
 LEGEND OF CUDDY BELL. 
 
 In days of yore, before the birth of order, 
 When Rapine was the warden of the Border ; 
 When will was law, — craft, wisdom, — and strength, 
 
 right,— 
 And the best plea for doing wrong was might ! 
 Those good old times the poets love to paint, 
 When whip-cord and cold water made a saint, 
 And turbulence a hero ; when the maid 
 Stabbed her betrayer — if she was betrayed. 
 Or, if the gentle suitor begged her love, 
 She sent him to the wars his faith to prove ; 
 When all the honeyed words the lover spoke 
 Were far less moving than the heads he broke. 
 Then if he died, or stayed away too long, 
 The minstrels told his story in a song ; 
 And the fair lady strove her grief to smother 
 For one true love — by wedding to another ! 
 
 Ay ! these were times indeed — when if a fair one 
 Had twenty lovers, yet she could not spare one, 
 But set them in a chamber all together, 
 Or in the yard (according to the weather) ; 
 
112 CUDDY BELL AND NANNY OGLE. 
 
 Armed them with spears or cudgels, as the case was, 
 Mounted or not, as more or less the space was ; 
 And he who in this struggle stood the longest, 
 Whose head was thickest or whose arm was strongest, 
 And best his rivals thumped or hacked pell-mell, 
 From every crown-cracked champion bore the bell. 
 
 Oh ! blessed age ! oh ! dear lamented times ! 
 When theft and homicide were jokes, not crimes ; 
 When burning peels and towns were acts of merit, 
 And deep revenge became a lad of spirit ; 
 When every eye saw fairies, ghosts, and devils, 
 Frisk in the moon-beam in their midnight revels. 
 
 When Merlay ruled in Morpeth's well-kept castle, 
 
 And plundered and protected many a vassal, 
 
 Of one of them a fearful tale is told, 
 
 Which, if you dare to listen, I'll unfold. 
 
 Fie was a youth of grace in form and manners, . 
 
 Hight Cuddy Bell — or Cuddy of the Stanners, 
 
 A sturdy, home-spun, true Northumbrian yeoman, 
 
 Who neither fear'd the devil nor a foeman ; 
 
 Scotchmen he drubbed, as drubbed St. George the 
 
 dragon, 
 And loved one woman as he loved a flagon, — 
 The daughter of the Parish Clerk of Mitford ; 
 I'll sketch her portrait, though she did not sit for 't. 
 
 In person just below the middle size, 
 
 With dark brown hair, and black and sparkling eyes ; 
 
CUDDY BELL AND NANNY OGLE. 113 
 
 A pretty nose, ripe lips, and ruby cheeks ; 
 That neatness, which a well-turned mind bespeaks, 
 Graced her plump person — plump ? — at least her boddice 
 Required tight lacing to make Nan a goddess. 
 
 One night, when fierce December's drifting snow 
 Whitened the towers above — the ground below, 
 When the keen blasts alternate roared and howled, 
 And thro' the hall strange fire-bronzed shadows scowled, 
 There, midst the wardens, while the black jack danced 
 Merrily round, had Cuddy sat entranced, 
 And still had sat, nor cared to sleep a wink, 
 While tales were yet to tell, or draughts to drink. 
 But churlish duty roused at length his hosts 
 From cup and jest, and tales of blood and ghosts, 
 And sent them growling to their several posts. 
 Then forth must Cuddy, right reluctant, hie, 
 To brave the tender mercies of the sky ; 
 And then — oh then ! — to love and Nanny true, 
 Towards Mitford's town with timeless steps he drew. 
 Of blood and ghosts, I say, their tales had been, 
 Of wild shrieks heard and hideous faces seen ! 
 Of forms from new-made graves beheld to rise, 
 Grim fleshless things that glared with stony eyes ! 
 Of dancing devils, gibbering and grinning 
 At wights less prone to praying than to sinning ; 
 And elves and spirits that oft, at midnight's hour, 
 O'er righteous men themselves have fearful power. 
 No marvel then that Cuddy held his way, 
 Brimful of horrors, as a rustic may, 
 
 3 
 
114 CUDDY BELL AND NANNY OGLE. 
 
 And heard a thousand demons in the woods, 
 And in the Wansbeck's redly rushing floods. 
 Sore was the conflict, none, methinks, may doubt, 
 'Twixt ghastly terrors and sublime brown stout. 
 
 But when our hero reach'd at length the place 
 
 Where the New minster rear'd its hoary face, 
 
 What was his joy to find his Nanny wait, 
 
 In such a night, his coming at the gate I 
 
 He clasped Nanny gently to his breast, 
 
 And fiercely kissed, and boorishly carest. 
 
 In vain the tempest work'd its furious will, 
 
 The raptured lovers kissed and wander'd still, 
 
 And reach'd at length the foot of the dark hill, 
 
 On the south bank above the abbey mill ; 
 
 And just as glared the castle beacon's gleam, 
 
 A dread voice thundered from the rushing stream, 
 
 And, "Come, Diabolo I" it loudly cried, 
 
 And Nanny whisked from Cuddy's shuddering side, 
 
 And straight the form, so beautiful before, 
 
 A demon's horns, and tail, and talons wore !— 
 
 Full in his face she laugh'd with fiendish spite, 
 
 And would have torn his eyes out if she might ; 
 
 But on and fast sped Cuddy like the wind, 
 
 And left his phantom sweetheart far behind. 
 
 " Oh ! Mary ! mother !" — thus the frighted swain, 
 
 Once in his own rude dwelling safe again, 
 
 Roar'd to the Virgin, — " this was kindly parried ; 
 
 Thank God, I've found her out before we married." 
 
THE LEGEND 
 
 OP 
 
 PERCY'S CROSS, 
 
 " I have saved the bird in my breast." 
 
 Sir Ralph Percy's dying declaration. 
 
Cije JUgenti of #>eccp's Crass. 
 
 The Battle of Hedgley Moor occupies as prominent 
 a station in the pages of history as does the apocryphal 
 Battle of Chevy Chase in the local legends of .the 
 country. All the circumstances connected with the 
 desolating wars between the rival houses of York 
 and Lancaster, so far as they relate to Northumber- 
 land, are as " familiar as household terms" to general 
 readers, and have been so abundantly detailed by 
 different writers, that a repetition here would be a 
 work of supererogation. A few brief remarks are 
 only necessary to give the following legend a local 
 name, and to increase the interest of the original 
 tradition by fictitious embellishment. Legitimate 
 history at the best only affords a sort of indistinct 
 light, or what painters term general effect, and which 
 is insufficient of itself, without the aid of conjecture, 
 to illume the dim outline of this and the subsequent 
 battle that immediately followed at Hexham, when 
 the Lancastrians again lost the day, and with it 
 
 " The earthquake voice of victory, 
 
 To them the breath of life." 
 
 Mr. Wright, in his History of Hexham, observes, 
 that " no legend points out the scene of action, and 
 historians differ so widely, that it is yet a pertinent 
 question — where was the Battle of Hexham fought ?" 
 
IIS LEGEND OF PERCY'S CROSS. 
 
 From the known incidents connected with the Battle 
 of Hedgley Moor, it may be inferred to have been a 
 sanguinary struggle ; indeed, the very circumstance 
 of a Percy conducting the enterprise sufficiently 
 strengthens the hypothesis. There was business of 
 the most stern and uncompromising nature to enact 
 when a Percy took the field. The very name almost 
 commanded success, and could calm into obedience 
 the most turbulent spirits on the English borders, or 
 rouse them into untameable excitement. 
 
 His was the name that oft hath cast 
 
 Terror when given to the blast ; 
 
 His was the charger when the tide 
 
 Of purple strife rolled far and wide ; 
 
 When vengeful blades were thickest flashing, 
 
 Ever was seen in fury dashing ! — 
 
 Where havock's fiend was wildest raving, 
 
 Ever his dreaded plume was waving ! 
 
 Where the yell and shout were loudest, 
 
 Ever his banner soared the proudest ! — 
 
 His was the name that many a hill 
 
 And Scottish glen remember still ; 
 
 When the bugle's blast, and the ban-dog's howl, 
 
 Scared the turreted raven and owl ; 
 
 And shrieks below, and fires on high 
 
 Reddened the troubled and startled sky, 
 
 Told Caledon's sons the foe was nigh. — 
 
 A foe ! who deemed not aught was done, 
 
 Till all were fled and all was won ; 
 
 Who knew not parley nor retreat, 
 
 Till the work of victory was complete ! 
 
 Vide Service's Reminiscences. 
 
 i 
 
LEGEND OF PERCY S CROSS. 
 
 119 
 
 Sir Ralph Percy was the only nobleman of the red- 
 rose party who preserved the sanctity of his vow in- 
 violate to Henry, and " the bird in his breast" sacred 
 to his own honour ; and who, when basely deserted 
 by Lords Hungerford and Ross, obstinately main- 
 tained his ground to the last gasp, and " foremost 
 fighting fell" among the bravest of the brave. To 
 him may be applied these lines of Milton : — 
 
 " Faithful found 
 
 Among the faithless, faithful only he ; 
 
 Among innumerable false, unmoved, 
 
 Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, 
 
 His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 
 
 Nor number, nor example, with him wrought, 
 
 To swerve from truth, or sway his constant mind, 
 
 Though single." 
 
THE 
 
 LEGEND OF PERCY'S CEOSS. 
 
 " Fair morn betide thee, sire of this lonely glen, 
 " Fair morn betide thee, why stopp'st thou me?" 
 
 Up spoke the father then, 
 
 " Chief! in this lolely glen, 
 " Through the dark night hours I've tarried for thee. 
 
 " Chief! to the battle plain spur not thy charger, 
 " Far be from Hedgley thy pennon and plume ! 
 
 " A vision comes o'er me, 
 
 " Hosts gather before me, 
 " The mighty rush on — but they rush to the tomb." 
 
 " Ho gallants! a Seer !" quoth the Lord of the cres- 
 cent then, 
 " Knight and squire, page and groom, reck ye the 
 rede ? 
 " The voice of a stranger 
 " Warns Percy from danger, 
 " Fly, fly we like cravens — spur palfrey and steed I" 
 
LEGEND OF PERCY'S CROSS. 121 
 
 ^Ha!" cried the wizard then, "spurnest thou ray- 
 counsel ? 
 " Yet again, and but once, list the voice thou hast 
 scorned, 
 " Trust not the Ross's word, 
 " Shun the dark Hungerford, 
 " Fly the proud Montacute — Chief! thou art warned." 
 
 " On," said the Percy, "and heed not the dreamer, 
 " Burst like a storm on the rebels' array ! 
 " Accurst be the omen 
 " Parts foeman from foeman, 
 " Stout hearts for the red roses ! — spur and away !" 
 
 Darkly they serried their lines on the desert heath, 
 Darkly they closed, and the battle raged high ; 
 
 Rung on the sighing gale 
 
 Many a dying wail ; 
 Steel clash'd on hauberk — shafts darken'd the sky. 
 
 Many a goodly steed masterless galloped there, 
 
 Many a rider lay reeking in gore, 
 Many a bloody hand 
 Plied the red bill and brand, 
 
 Many a knight fell to rise never more ! 
 
 Chieftains on chieftains rush — lo ! where the proud- 
 est fight, 
 Whose barb through the phalanx bounds fearless 
 and first — 
 
122 
 
 LEGEND OF PERCY S CROSS. 
 
 In his banner far streaming 
 The crescent is gleaming, 
 And fiercely his bands through the serried links 
 burst. 
 
 Ha ! quenched is the crescent's light — lo ! where 
 
 he bleeding lies ! 
 True were the words he recklessly braved ; 
 
 Mark ye his glazing eye, 
 
 List ye his dying cry ! 
 - Triumph ! the bird in my bosom I've saved." 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Percy's Cross is a pillar commemorative of the death 
 of Sir Ralph Percy, who was killed at the Battle of 
 Hedgley Moor, in one of the contests between the 
 Yorkists and Lancastrians in the year 14b'3 ? when 
 nearly all the vassal population of Northumberland 
 were destroyed. The cross stands in a field on the 
 east side of the road leading from Morpeth to Woolei% 
 and at a short distance to the north of the 21st mile- 
 stone. The arms of Percy and Lucy and other he- 
 raldic insignia are rudely sculptured on the four sides 
 
 — - Of the dark grey stone, 
 
 Now shattered by time and rugged grown, 
 
 Memorial of deeds gone by, 
 
 Yet woos the passing wanderer's eye — 
 
 Lone vestige of the mighty past ! 
 Upreared by long-sepulchred hands, 
 
 Like monarch old in exile cast, 
 In ruined majesty it stands — 
 
 Casting an aspect of the tomb, 
 
 A shade of monumental gloom, 
 
 O'er the rude heath, that far and wide, 
 (As travellers' weary eye may ken), 
 
 Scarce shews a trace of human pride — 
 A distant residence of men. 
 
124 Percy's cross. 
 
 Tis sculptured with devices o'er, 
 
 And mottoes of the brave of yore ; 
 
 But there time's wasting breath hath been, 
 
 And the winter winds of heaven keen, 
 
 And the tempest's rush and the drenching rain, 
 
 That will not beat for an age in vain, 
 
 Mouldering the artist's toil away, 
 
 Wasting all in slow decay. 
 
 'Tis of the Percy's deathless fame, 
 
 That dark grey Cross remains to tell ; 
 It bears the Percy's honoured name, 
 
 For near its base the Percy fell. 
 And there, when evening's shadows brown, 
 Dark Hedgley, on thy heath sank down, 
 Oft have I lingered, till the gale, 
 
 That died in murmurs faint away, 
 Seemed laden with a feeble wail, 
 
 O'er that lone relic worn and grey. 
 And oft imagination's eye, 
 Dim through the mist could there descry 
 Dark shadowy forms careering by; 
 Each wielding in its cloudy hand 
 The semblance of a spear or brand, 
 As if the spirits of the brave, 
 Who found on Hedgley Moor their grave, 
 To mourn above the vestige came, 
 That bears their chieftain's honoured name. 
 
 Vide Service's Reminiscences. 
 
THE LEGEND 
 
 SHEWIN' SHIELS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CUDDY a THE STEEL. 
 
 (HEXHAMSHIRE.) 
 
 " Season your admiration for a while, 
 With an attent ear, till I may deliver 
 Upon the witness of these same pages, 
 This marvel to you." 
 
Shewin' Shiels lies on the western extremity of 
 Warden parish, in Tynedale Ward. Its castle is in 
 ruins, and is "as solitary a spot as sorrow can 
 desire." Popular tradition says that King Arthur 
 and his court are enchanted near the ruins of Shewin' 
 Shiels Castle, in the " cavern of the enchanted war- 
 riors" to which the following legend owes its 
 existence. To this cognomen should be appended 
 the sub-title of the " Seven Sleepers," which is gene- 
 rally done by the best story-tellers in u the north 
 countrie." Camden mistook this place for the station 
 of Hunnum, " but," says Horsley, " I saw nothing 
 that was Roman in it." 
 
€f)e Hegeno of g^etotn' ^inels. 
 
 This Legend bears a strong resemblance in shape 
 and feature to the memorable fable of the Seven 
 Sleepers, mentioned by Gibbon, in his History of 
 the Roman Empire, which is as follows : — 
 
 " When the Emperor Decius persecuted the Chris- 
 tians, seven noble youths of Ephesus concealed them- 
 selves in a spacious cavern in the side of an adjacent 
 mountain, where they were doomed to perish by the 
 tyrant, who gave orders that the entrance should be 
 firmly secured by a pile of large stones. They im- 
 mediately fell into a deep slumber, which was mira- 
 culously prolonged, without injuring the powers of 
 life, during a period of 187 years. At the end of 
 that time, the slaves of Adolius, to whom the inherit- 
 ance of the mountain had descended, removed the 
 stones to supply materials for some rustic edifice. 
 The light of the sun darted into the cavern, and the 
 Seven Sleepers were permitted to awake, after a 
 slumber, as they thought, of a few hours. They 
 were pressed by the calls of hunger ; and resolved 
 that Jamblichus, one of their number, should secretly 
 return to the city to purchase bread for the use of 
 his companions. The youth (if we may still employ 
 the appellation) could no longer recognise the once 
 familiar aspect of his native country, and his surprise 
 was increased by the appearance of a large cross 
 triumphantly erected over the principal gate of 
 
128 LEGEND OF SHEWIN* SHIELS. 
 
 Ephesus. His singular dress and obsolete language 
 confounded the baker, to whom he offered an ancient 
 medal of Decius, as the current coin of the empire ; 
 and Jamblichus, on the suspicion of a secret treasure, 
 was dragged before the judge. Their mutual inqui- 
 ries produced the amazing discovery, that two cen- 
 turies were almost elapsed since Jamblichus and his 
 friends had escaped from the rage of a pagan tyrant. 
 The Bishop of Ephesus, the clergy, the magistrates, 
 the people, and, it is said, the Emperor Theodosius 
 himself, hastened to visit the cavern of the Seven 
 Sleepers, who bestowed their benediction, related their 
 story, and at the same instant peaceably expired." 
 
 The historian gives the following reflections on 
 this celebrated legend: — " We imperceptibly ad- 
 vance from youth to age without observing the gra- 
 dual, but incessant, change of human affairs ; and, 
 even in our larger experience of history, the imagi- 
 nation is accustomed by a perpetual series of causes 
 and effects, to unite the most distant revolutions. 
 But if the interval between two memorable eras be 
 instantly annihilated ; if it were possible, after a 
 momentary slumber of 200 years, to display the new 
 world to the eyes of a spectator, who still retained a 
 lively and recent impression of the old, his surprise 
 and his reflections would furnish the pleasing subject 
 of a philosophical romance." 
 
 The Northumberland Squire, Cuddy, when he 
 awoke from his unconscious slumber of " seven long 
 hundred years," and found himself again a sentient 
 being, his astonishment would not be less vehement 
 than was that of Jamblichus, the youth of Ephesus. 
 
THE 
 
 LEGEND OF SHEWIN' SHIELS. 
 
 In days of yore, those good and golden days, 
 Which all who know them not so warmly praise, 
 When Tynedale loved to harry Scotland's goods, 
 And gave their matrons " light to set their hoods," 
 There was, and is, in Hexhamshire a spot, 
 No matter if remembered or forgot, 
 'Twas bosom'd then 'midst forests, moors, and plains, 
 Mountains untrack'd, and roads, or rather lanes, 
 Of rare occurrence — deep, and wet, and muddy, 
 Winding through swampy bog, or covert woody, 
 To where a lordly castle grimly frown'd 
 O'er a few turf-built huts that huddled round 
 The moated wall, as if they fear'd the lower 
 And sullen shadow of the dungeon tower ; 
 Or to the quiet vale and cultured glade, 
 Where peaceful churchmen had their dwellings made. 
 But these green spots were rare — the hardy heather 
 Supplied the place of corn and grass together ; 
 Houses and weapons, clothes, and fire, and food, 
 Were all afforded by the neighbouring wood ; 
 The healthy churl, in undressed deer-skin fine, 
 Counted with conscious pride his herds of swine ; — 
 
130 LEGEND OF SHEWIJ\' SHIELS. 
 
 Where are they now ? — alas ! the herdsman's fled, 
 The only pigs we breed are pigs of lead ! 
 
 But to our tale. — Our hero was a squire, 
 
 One of the church's tenants in the shire, 
 
 The owner of a solitary peel, 
 
 From which men called him " Cuddy o* the Steel." 
 
 His friends confessed, and foes were made to feel, 
 
 That Steel was steel indeed from head to heel ; 
 
 He had the iron virtues of his time, 
 
 Its ignorance, and something of its crime. 
 
 One night the wind bore on its hollow swell 
 The booming notes of Hexham's Abbey bell, — 
 That bell which, to the neighbourhood's dismay, 
 Rang out the tidings of a threatened fray. 
 Red blazed the beacon's light on Hexham fell, 
 And Warden to the signal answered well ; 
 Dilston heard Beaufront wind his mellow horn, 
 Aydon to rouse, and Halton tower to warn ; 
 And pale the fire light was reflected back 
 From baron's helm and yeoman's burnished jack; 
 And spear and corslet, targe and brand, and glave, 
 Returned the fire the fierce red light it gave ; 
 As troop on troop, in broad and sweeping line, 
 Dash'd their proud steeds across the roaring Tyne. 
 And broader yet the beacon glare was flung, — 
 And deeper yet each turret's 'larum rung! 
 Here peal'd a horn, — there neighed a startled steed- 
 A RatclifFe here was roared, and there a Reed — 
 
LEGEND OF SHEWI^ SHIELS. 131 
 
 A Tyndale — Fenwick — Ridley — or a Bell ; 
 
 And echo paid them back from Acomb Fell, 
 
 Where many a Scottish slogan fiercely rose, 
 
 Telling the name and number of the foes. 
 
 On Fallowfield or plain, in mad career, 
 
 The Scot met Tynedale glittering spear to spear ! 
 
 But why the tale of battle thus pursue ? 
 (A tale of blood like modern Waterloo) — 
 'Tis with the Squire alone we have to do ! 
 Cuddy was wounded ; on the ground he lay, — 
 Was seized at length, and swiftly borne away — 
 He knew not when, nor whether, nor by whom, 
 But woke at last within a stately room 
 Cut from the solid rock, with seats around, 
 On each of which a sleeping knight lay bound ! 
 He counted seven in green-wood mantles drest, 
 With knightly spur on heel, and chain on breast ; 
 He tried in vain to wake them, one or all ; 
 A horn and sword were hung upon the wall ; 
 Cuddy approach'd, when, from the eastern side, 
 A mystic voice in hollow accents cried, 
 u Forbear !" "For whom ?" cried Cuddy at the word, 
 And laid his dauntless hand upon the sword, 
 And half unsheath'd the blade. — The chamber rung — 
 Up from their beds the seven green sleepers sprung, 
 And seven keen swords were gleaming at his breast. 
 i Cuddy, with wonder more than fear oppressed, 
 Dropt from his hand the sword and seized the horn, 
 And blew r a blast his distant friends to warn. 
 
132 LEGEND OF SHEWI^ SHIELS. 
 
 The champions sink — the chamber melts away— 
 And Cuddy finds himself in open day — 
 Alive — uninjured — for his wound he feels, — 
 'Tis gone ! he views the crags of Shewin' Shiels, 
 And recollects the tale of Arthur's knights, 
 And trembles as he thinks upon the sights 
 Just vanished in that fair and fairy hall, 
 The seven green sleepers and the magic call ! 
 He crossed himself, and blessed the gracious hour 
 That snatched him timely from enchantment's power ! 
 
 'Twas dawn before the battle's heat was done, 
 And now he sees the scarcely risen sun — 
 Sir Cuddy thought — but, judge of his surprise, 
 When to his wild and wonder-stricken eyes 
 Appeared the country new and very strange, 
 He wist not how to reconcile the change — 
 Corn fields, and gardens ; houses, neat and strong, 
 No woods, no mosses — as he trudged along 
 Upon a road so beautiful and broad — 
 What could he think? — he felt his spirits awed ! 
 The fairies had thrown glamour o'er his eyes, 
 And all he saw gave more and more surprise ! 
 Men looked not like the men that he had seen, 
 They spake another language — and his mien 
 Appear'd to move their wonder. — On he came, 
 But still he found no single scene the same, 
 Nought as it was before — the rushing river 
 Indeed swept on as beautiful as ever, 
 
LEGEND OF SHEWIN* SHIELS. 133 
 
 The hills stood still — the valleys kept their places — 
 But glens and dales alike had changed their faces. 
 He crossed the Tyne by a superior bridge, 
 And saw a rail- way climb the mountain ridge ; 
 He entered Hexham, passing Quatre Bras, 
 And grew the more amazed the more he saw. 
 He knew not on what point his thoughts to fix, 
 When Eighteen Hundred — lo ! and twenty-six 
 Before his eyes in capitals appears ! — 
 Why he had slept full seven long hundred years ! 
 
 Well might he see a change in all things round ! 
 Well might this new — old world his brain confound ! 
 In his young days men strove to warm the heart, 
 But now the head seem'd thought the better part. 
 The laughing fair ones of our modern days, 
 He swore, indeed, were past all power of praise, 
 But wish'd himself, whene'er he named the men, 
 Asleep for seven long hundred years again ! 
 
 rV,»iiiiinS^Pw?w 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Note 1, p. 130, l. 17, &c. 
 
 Dilston heard Beaufront wind his mellow horn, 
 Ay don to rouse, and Halton tower to warn. 
 
 Dilston stands conspicuously on the south side of 
 the Tyne; and it is said that the inhabitants of Dil- 
 ston and Beaufront were wont to inform each other 
 of any important news by the use of a speaking 
 trumpet. This is more probable than the trumpet 
 of the Roman wall. 
 
 Beaufront, long the seat of the Errington family, 
 is an elegant mansion, standing in a commanding 
 yet sheltered situation on the northern bank of Tyne, 
 about two miles below Hexham. Few places make 
 a finer appearance or enjoy a wider or more cultivated 
 prospect than this. 
 
 Halton Tower, the seat of the Haltons, afterwards 
 of the Carnabies, and lastly of the Blacketts. It is 
 a strong old seat, with turrets at its four corners , and 
 commands a good prospect. An ancient sword of 
 the Carnabies, 64 inches long, is preserved at Halton, 
 which is the site of the Roman station Hunnum. 
 
 Aydon Castle stands on the west side of a deep dell, 
 and appears to have been a place of great size and 
 strength. The heiress of the last Aydon of Aydon 
 was married by Edward I. to Peter de Wallis. 
 
 Note 2, p. 131, l. 5. 
 
 On Fallowfield or plain. 
 
 Fallowfield stands on an eminence between Wall 
 and A comb. Here is the " written crag" on which 
 is inscribed in legible and deep letters " Petra Flavi 
 Carantini, — the Crag ofFlavus Carantinus. 
 
THE LEGEND 
 
 OF 
 
 HOB 0' THE STOB HILL. 
 
 (MORPETH.) 
 
 " An ancient story I'll tell you anon, 
 Of a notable prince that was called king John ; 
 And he ruled England with main and with might, 
 For he did great wrong, and maintained little right." 
 
 King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, 
 
Hob o' the Stob Hill is a tradition of Morpeth in the 
 olden time, during the reign of king John, when the 
 whole kingdom became a prey to disorder and con- 
 vulsions of every kind. Neither life, property, nor 
 freedom could be secured by law. The nobles were 
 dreadfully oppressed, and made for a length of time 
 little pretensions to any rights ; and the vassals, hav- 
 ing nothing to lose, adopted the compendious and 
 
 •' Simple plan, 
 
 That they should take, who have the power, 
 And they should keep, who can." 
 
 The Northumberland barons had recourse to Alex- 
 ander II. king of Scotland, for protection against 
 king John; and, in order to obtain it, they did 
 homage to Alexander at Felton. King John, in 
 resentment of the defection of the barons, advanced 
 to the borders ; and, amongst other places, reduced 
 Wark, in Northumberland, to ashes. Camden states 
 that Morpeth was set on fire by the inhabitants them- 
 selves, to prejudice John, who would have rested 
 here in his infamous expedition. 
 
HOB 0' THE STOB HILL. 
 
 I've said, and say again, that they who praise, 
 With such inveterate glee, the good old days, 
 Are somewhat apt in prejudice to wander, 
 And treat the present age with less than candour; 
 But for his reason should you press your poet, 
 Hark to his tale, that probably will shew it ! 
 
 Have you, sir, seen a comet ? — yes ! — she shines 
 
 Exactly with the lustre of these lines ; 
 
 No head, nor fountain of her light, we find, 
 
 But she's extremely luminous behind ! 
 
 So if my story's dark at first — the rhyme 
 
 Will sparkle now — and then blaze forth in time, 
 
 Spreading around new light on times gone by — 
 
 On tales once famed in Border Minstrelsie ! 
 
 Morpeth's good town is — just as you may know it ; 
 
 But as it was — the histories don't shew it; 
 
 My Legend will — 'tis local — and 'tis true, 
 
 A point that more concerns myself than you, 
 
 And how I came by it will prove it such, 
 
 Being taken — that is stolen — from the Hutch, 
 
 Which all the corporation deeds are held in, 
 
 As old and as obscure as Meg o' Meldon ! — 
 
 A huge and ugly oak-and-iron box, 
 
 They keep up stairs, secured by seven vast locks ; 
 
 But what are locks to antiquarian fingers? 
 
 A hint's enough — meanwhile my story lingers* 
 
138 HOB o' THE STOB HILL. 
 
 King John, it seems, had made a desperate kick-up, 
 And the whole nation reel'd and had the hickup; 
 Now what they quarrel'd for, it matters not, 
 We care not now, nor did they then one jot ; 
 On one side stood the king, and on the other 
 Was the Lord Morpeth and his younger brother. 
 In those hot days it was a sort of fashion, 
 That whatsoe'er the landlord chose to dash on, 
 The tenant followed, were it for good or evil — 
 u Go on, I follow — be it to the devil !" 
 And not a vassal dared his leader's steps shun, 
 A general rule, but there was one exception. 
 Hob o' the Stob Hill, simpleton by rule, 
 And wise enough, at least, to seem a fool, 
 Took, as few wiser men had ever done, 
 A witty way to cherish number one! 
 Such beings were and are — who can dispense, 
 A pound of sound, with half a grain of sense; 
 Sages look queer, and stranged how instinct can 
 So well supply the place of mind in man ! — ' 
 
 Hob had a wife, one of those gentle dearies 
 
 Who rule with rod of iron — whose chief fear is 
 
 Not to be fear'd — who at the altar say, 
 
 "J will command" for " honour and obey" 
 
 Now Hobby's was a ticklish situation ; 
 
 The king commanded him, with half the nation, 
 
 To join the royal banner, — and his lord 
 
 Bade Hob against the king to draw his sword ; 
 
 His wife, with voice as terrible as either, 
 
 Cried, " draw thy sword, I charge thee, Hob, for neither." 
 
 "Right!" said the king — " left !" cried the baron, — u halt t" 
 
 Roar'd the domestic tyrant, — Hob at fault 
 
HOB o' THE STOB HILL. 139 
 
 Scratch'd his shock head, and rolled his eyes, and cried, 
 
 " There's but ae way to please them aw," — and died. 
 
 Such accidents were not much heeded then ; 
 
 The king and baron, both in want of men, 
 
 Desired the mourning widow out of hand 
 
 To furnish one for each, or lose the land. 
 
 In those days, would you think it ? ladies' money 
 
 Could make a bitter bargain sweet as honey. 
 
 So Hobby's widow found a match, and he 
 
 Went as a trooper to the king, — while she 
 
 In Hobby's jack, and armed with good broad-sword, 
 
 Mounted the one-eyed mare, and joined her lord ! — 
 
 " Meg," said the amazon, (t keep ye the hoose, 
 
 " Look to the cows, and watch the cleckin goose; 
 
 " And, for poor Hobby, tyek the silly creature 
 
 "On your Strang back, and fling him i' the water." 
 
 Away she sallied, and to do the job 
 Maggie approached ; when, lo ! up started Hob, 
 Capering as though death had but made him stronger, 
 And swore he had but died to live the longer ; 
 Free from his fears, and severed from his wife, 
 He hoped to lead a semi-joyous life. 
 Alas ! how vain are human hopes ! the king 
 Threatened on Morpeth fire and sword to bring. 
 Then stood the town on t'other side the river, 
 And the lord's bailiff then was the land giver ; 
 He caused the freemen, as the king came down, 
 To save their lives, and sacrifice the town. 
 The patriot freemen quickly fired their houses, 
 And on their backs bore off their goods and spouses. 
 Hobby excepted ! — he, with wiser aim, 
 Struggled to save his cottage from the flame, 
 
140 HOB O' THE STOB HILL. 
 
 And kindly offered to his brother freemen, 
 
 Ransom for all their goods, except their women. 
 
 Not to digress, — this ne'er was his intent, 
 
 He took them as a Morpeth compliment ! 
 
 What that phrase means, authorities don't tell us, 
 
 But Hob's words may, — said he, "maw canny fellows, 
 
 " Ye knaw that aw was buckled wiv a marrow, 
 
 " That kept me like a tyed belaw a harrow, 
 
 " A naggy, stupid, fuilish, yammerin hovvdie, 
 
 " A parfit bison, and a huel for crowdie ; 
 
 " She gav me nowt i' plenty but her tongue, 
 
 " O' that a Morpeth compliment she flung. 
 
 " My lord, aw wad na flickered at his order, 
 
 " Was't for a raid or foray o'er the border ; 
 
 " But yens awn sells to whack at yen another, 
 
 " I see nae gude in't; — then to join the tother, 
 
 " Aw mean the king, — maw certes ! when maw wife 
 
 " In maw awn breeks had met me i' the strife, 
 
 " She wad hae whumbled me and ta'en maw life. 
 
 " Ye brainless culls, ye set the town a-lowe, 
 
 " And what I saved, ye wad hae frae me now, 
 
 " But tyek whe likes, and let him keep whe can, 
 
 " Maw part is aye to play the canny man ! 
 
 " Yer aw wise beggars — aw's a cull — but, hark! 
 
 " A wealthy fuil outweighs a hungry clerk ; 
 
 " Ye die to live in story — when aw died, 
 
 " It was to live wi' peace abuin maw head ; 
 
 " And when yer story's tell'd in efter day, 
 
 " Ye maunna think to carry a* the praise, 
 
 " For on this spot six hunder years hereafter, 
 
 " Clusters o' bonny lassies, wi' loud laughter, 
 
 " And witching smiles, shall praise the canny skill 
 
 " And living death o* Hob o' the Stob Hill !" 
 
THE LEGEND 
 
 PAULIIUS. 
 
 (HOLYSTONE.) 
 
 " Better converse whole ages with the dead, 
 Pore on a broken marble to retrieve 
 A single letter of a good man's name, 
 Than spend one moment with deceit and vice." 
 SewelVs Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
Pau linus is distinguished as the first apostle of Christianity to 
 the Northumbrians. Whilst Paganism prevailed in Northum- 
 berland, Edwin, the king of that country, about the year 625, 
 espoused Edelberga, the daughter of Ethelbert, king of Kent, 
 who had been converted to Christianity by the monk Augustus, 
 about thirty years before. Edelberga was permitted to enjoy 
 the free exercise of her religion, in which Edwin expressed a 
 wish to be instructed. But though the arguments of Paulinus 
 were enforced by the entreaties of the queen, Edwin hesitated 
 to embrace Christianity till he had consulted his faithful Wittena. 
 The council ended in the public acceptance of the new religion, 
 and even Coifi, the high priest of Northumberland, became a 
 zealous convert. The motive that induced Coifi to renounce 
 idolatry was singular. " No one," he said, " had served the 
 gods more assiduously than himself, and yet few had been less 
 fortunate. He was weary of deities who were so indifferent or 
 so ungrateful, and would willingly try his fortune under the 
 new religion." Edwin shewed himself a warm patron to Pauli- 
 nus, who prosecuted his missionary labours with great zeal and 
 success. Bede relates that whilst Paulinus attended the king 
 and queen at one of their royal manors, called Adgebrin, he was 
 occupied thirty-six days in instructing the people, who flocked 
 to him from all the neighbouring places, and afterwards bap- 
 tizing them in the river Glen. Camden conjectures, from the 
 similarity of the names and the propinquity to the river Glen, 
 that Adgebrin was situated where Yeverin now stands. The 
 tradition with respect to Holystone evidently refers to an event 
 in the ministry of Paulinus different from that mentioned by 
 Bede. Indeed, the name of Pallinsburn, (the seat of Adam 
 Askew, Esq.), by which a township in Northumberland is to 
 this day known, clearly indicates that the hallowing distinction 
 of being the scene of the performance of one of our religious 
 rites by him who was its first minister among our ancestors, was 
 shared by other places than that noticed by Bede. 
 
THE 
 
 LEGEND OF PAULINUS. 
 
 Of all the mighty chiefs that sleep 
 Beneath green Cheviot's sunny steep, 
 With whose renown the vales have rung 
 For ages — One remains unsung. 
 Daughter of the mountains ! * — long 
 Cheviot's echoes mock'd her song, 
 Brawling by the silent hill, 
 Where all things, save herself, were still. 
 Her rocky fetters felt no more, 
 She whirls along a pebbly shore; 
 Discursive o'er the meadows straying, 
 Or a crescent sweep displaying ; 
 Expanding now with mimic waves, 
 Slow the shelving bank she laves, 
 Then glides along until her course 
 Obstructed, with collected force 
 Resistless bursts her roaring way ! 
 By wooded crags and ruins grey 
 Of Brinkburn — Coquet's Islet green — 
 And Warkworth's fairy Vale unseen ; 
 Down the dell of Lanternside — 
 (Where monuments of Roman pride 
 
 * Coquet. 
 
144 LEGEND OF PAULINUS. 
 
 Oft the wand'rer's eye surpris'd, 
 'Mid nature's beauties dearer priz'd), 
 A foaming torrent pours its force, 
 Urging on its erring course, 
 In haste to swell Young Coquet's tide — 
 (Thy rugged brow, dark Simonside, 
 Frowns o'er their waters mingling) ; nigh 
 The trophies of a warrior lie. 
 Deep hidden 'mid the moorlands rude, 
 Encircled by a little wood — 
 Spreads a glassy fountain pure, 
 A mountain lake in miniature. 
 Its waters once, the peasants tell, 
 Supplied the Benedictine cell; 
 (Those ruin'd walls with moss o'ergrown, 
 The convent of the Holy Stone), 
 Where the sisters wont to dwell, 
 Whence its name " The Ladies' Well." * 
 Erected here by pious hands, 
 The statue of Paulinus stands, 
 The church's champion, ages past, 
 When Thor and Woden stood aghast 
 Before the soldiers of the Lord, 
 Armed with the weapons of his word. 
 God's spirit moved these waters then 
 To cleanse the sin-stain'd souls of men. 
 Yes, little fountain ! proudly spring, 
 While thy streamlet's murmuring 
 
 * The Ladies' Well, a remarkably pure spring, near the 
 village of Holystone, is distinguished as the spot where Pauli- 
 nus, an English Bishop, in the 7th century, baptized 3000 
 Danish and Saxon converts. 
 
LEGEND OF PAULINUS. 145 
 
 Brings before the wand'rer's eye, 
 
 Forms and scenes long, long gone by. 
 
 Inspired, upon thy little strand, 
 
 Fancy sees Paulinus stand ; 
 
 Before him, on the swelling green, 
 
 The Saxon youths and maidens, lean, 
 
 Graceful kirtles half concealing, 
 
 Half their beauteous forms revealing, 
 
 O'er their sun-burnt shoulders bare, 
 
 Easy flows their yellow hair ; 
 
 And their mild blue eyes express 
 
 Innocence and happiness. 
 
 The space beneath the rising hill, 
 
 The aged and the matrons fill. 
 
 A warrior train upon the ground 
 
 Lie, a raven standard round — 
 
 And another armed band 
 
 By a snowy courser stand. 
 
 Shatter'd mail and splinter'd spear 
 
 Strew the plain, yet there appear 
 
 No traces of a bloody fray — 
 
 No ! for this bright auspicious day 
 
 Saw the Christian soldier wield 
 
 The sword of Faith — and win the field — 
 
 Between contending hosts unfurl 
 
 The Banner of the Cross! and hurl 
 
 Fierce Woden from his scythed car. 
 
 His vot'ries wage a nobler war — 
 
 Truth upon his forehead gleaming, 
 
 In his eyes devotion beaming, 
 
 " His lips a parent's love expressing," 
 
 Pour the apostolic blessing, 
 
146 LEGEND OF PAULINUS. 
 
 And divine instruction's ray — 
 
 Whither, Fancy, wouldst thou stray ? 
 
 The inspiration of that hour 
 
 Acknowledges a holier pow'r. 
 
 The red-hair'd race of Lochlin, late 
 
 The Angles view'd with deadly hate ; 
 
 United, now, the kindred bands, 
 
 Brothers, join their plighted hands ; 
 
 Glad tidings eagerly receive, 
 
 And, with soften'd hearts, believe. 
 
 Loud the song of triumph raise, 
 
 Grateful sound the victor's praise, 
 
 Who, this day, with unstain'd sword, 
 
 Won three thousand to the Lord ! 
 
 Deathless wreaths the poets twine 
 
 For blood-flush'd brows — yet, worth like thine 
 
 A humbler garland, meek, receives 
 
 Of wild flowers, which the wand'rer weaves, 
 
 Flowers that only spring to-day, 
 
 And ere to-morrow fade away ; 
 
 Yet shall they, around thy tomb, 
 
 In perennial beauty bloom. 
 
 Yes, pure font, to thee 'twas given 
 
 To seal the Covenant of Heaven ! 
 
 Wherefore, noise and tumult fly 
 
 The precincts of thy sanctuary. 
 
THE 
 
 1AIDIEY WORM 
 
 OF 
 
 SPINDLESTON HEUGH. 
 
 (BAMBURGH.) 
 
 BY DUNCAN FRASIER, 
 
 THE OLD MOUNTAIN BARB, LIVING ON CHEVIOT, A. D. 1270. 
 
 "Virgo jam serpens sinuosa volumina versat, 
 Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores, 
 Arrectisque horret squamis, et sibilat ore, 
 Arduaque insurgens navem de littore pulsat." 
 
THE 
 
 LAIDLEY WORM. 
 
 The king is gone from Bamburgh Castle. 
 
 Long may the princess mourn ; 
 Long may she stand on the castle wall. 
 
 Looking for his return. 
 
 She has knotted the keys upon a string, 
 And with her she has them ta'en : 
 
 She has cast them o'er her left shoulder, 
 And to the gate she is gane. 
 
 She tripped out, she tripped in, 
 
 She tript into the yard : 
 But it was more for the king's sake, 
 
 Than for the queen's regard. 
 
 It fell out on a day, the king 
 
 Brought the queen with him home ; 
 
 And all the lords in our country, 
 To welcome them did come. 
 
 Oh ! welcome father, the lady cries, 
 
 Unto our halls and bowers ; 
 And so are you, my step-mother, 
 
 For all that's here is yours, 
 
 A lord said, wondering while she spake, 
 The princess of the north 
 
150 THE LAIDLtiY WORM 
 
 Surpasses all of female kind. 
 In beauty, and in worth. 
 
 The envious queen replied, at least, 
 You might have excepted me ; 
 
 In a few hours I will her bring 
 Down to a low degree* 
 
 I will her liken to a laidley worm, 
 
 That wraps about the stone : 
 And not, till Childe Wynd * comes back, 
 
 Shall she again be won. 
 
 The princess stood at the bower door, 
 Laughing, who could her blame ? 
 
 But e'er the next day's sun went down, 
 A long worm she became. 
 
 For seven miles east, and seven miles west. 
 
 And seven miles north and south, 
 No blade of grass or corn could grow, 
 
 So venomous was her mouth. 
 
 The milk of seven stately cows, 
 
 (It was costly her to keep), 
 Was brought her daily, which she drank 
 
 Before she went to sleep. 
 
 At this day may be seen the cave, 
 
 Which held her folded up ; 
 And the stone trough, the very same, 
 
 Out of which she did sup. 
 
 * There is now a street called Wynd, at Bamburgh. 
 
OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH. 151 
 
 Word went east, and word went west, 
 
 And word is gone over the sea ; 
 That a laidley worm in Spindleston Heugh 
 
 Would ruin the north country. 
 
 Word went east, and word went west, 
 
 And over the sea did go ; 
 The Childe of Wynd got wit of it, 
 
 Which filled his heart with woe. 
 
 He called straight his merry men all, 
 
 They thirty were and three ; 
 I wish I was at Spindleston, 
 
 This desperate worm to see. 
 
 We have no time now here to waste, 
 
 Hence quickly let us sail : 
 My only sister Margaret, 
 
 Something, I fear, doth ail. 
 
 They built a ship without delay, 
 
 With masts of rown-tree ; 
 With fluttering sails of silk so fine, 
 
 And set her on the sea. 
 
 They went on board, the wind with speed 
 
 Blew them along the deep ; 
 At length they spied a huge square tower 
 
 On a rock high and steep. 
 
 The sea was smooth, the weather clear, 
 
 When they approached nigher, 
 King Ida's castle they well knew, 
 
 And the banks of Bamburghshire. 
 
152 THE LAIDLEY WORM 
 
 The queen look'd out at her bower window, 
 
 To see what she could see ; 
 There she espied a gallant ship, 
 
 Sailing upon the sea. 
 
 When she beheld the silken sails. 
 
 Full glancing in the sun ; 
 To sink the ship she sent away, 
 
 Her witch wives every one. 
 
 The spells were vain. The hags returned 
 To the queen in sorrowful mood, 
 
 Crying that witches have no power 
 Where there is rown-tree wood. 
 
 Her last effort, she sent a boat, 
 
 Which in the haven lay, 
 W T ith armed men to board the ship, 
 
 But they were driven away. 
 
 The worm leapt up, the worm leapt down, 
 
 She plaited round the stone ; 
 And aye as the ship came to the land, 
 
 She banged it off again. 
 
 The Childe then ran, out of her reach, 
 
 The ship on Budley-sand ; 
 And jumping into the shallow sea, 
 
 Securely got to land. 
 
 And now he drew his berry broad-sword, 
 
 And laid it on her head ; 
 And swore if she did harm to him, 
 
 That he would strike her dead. 
 
OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH. 153 
 
 Oh ! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, 
 
 And give me kisses three ; 
 For though I am a poisonous worm. 
 
 No hurt I'll do to thee. 
 
 Oh ! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, 
 
 And give me kisses three; 
 If I'm not won ere the sun go down, 
 
 Won I shall never be. 
 
 He quitted his sword, and bent his bow, 
 
 And gave her kisses three ; 
 She crept into a hole a worm, 
 
 But out stept a lady. 
 
 No clothing had this lady fine, 
 
 To keep her from the cold ; 
 He took his mantle from him about, 
 
 And round her did it fold. 
 
 He has taken his mantle from him about, 
 
 And in it he wrapt her in ? 
 And they are up to Bamburgh Castle, 
 
 As fast as they can win. 
 
 His absence and her serpent shape, 
 
 The king had long deplor'd, 
 He now rejoic'd to see them both, 
 
 Again to him restor'd. 
 
 The queen they wanted, whom they found 
 
 All pale, and sore afraid ; 
 Full well she knew her power must yield 
 
 To Childe Wynd's, who said ; 
 
154 THE LAIDLEY WORM. 
 
 Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch, 
 An ill death may est thou dee ; 
 
 As thou my sister hast likened, 
 So likened thou shalt be. 
 
 I will turn you into a toad, 
 
 That on the ground doth wend ; 
 
 And won, won thou shalt never be 
 Till this world hath an end. 
 
 Now on the sand, near Ida's tower, 
 She crawls a loathsome toad, 
 
 And venom spits on every maid, 
 She meets upon the road. 
 
 The virgins all of Bamburgh town, 
 Will swear that they have seen 
 
 This spiteful toad of monstrous size, 
 Whilst walking they have been. 
 
 All folks believe within the shire, 
 
 This story to be true, 
 And they all run to Spindleston, 
 
 The cave and trough to view. 
 
 This fact now Duncan Frasier, 
 Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme ; 
 
 Lest Bamburghshire men should forget 
 Some part of it in time. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Laidley Worm, that is, loathly or loathsome worm, 
 is synonymous with dragon, and was used by the old 
 poets with much license. All nations have their tales 
 of fabulous monsters, under whose horrible appetite, 
 enormous proportion, and obliquity of movement, 
 they have been poetically shadowed forth as the great 
 scourges of the people, or the loathsome pests of dis- 
 tinguished families. 
 
 The worm or serpent was a frequent and favourite 
 simile with the old English authors. In Shakespeare, 
 " the worm is a good worm, sir," says the fellow who 
 sells the asp to Charmina. " The worm that's fled 
 hath nature, which in time may venom breed." And 
 he speaks of slander's tongue as outvenoming Ci all 
 the worms of Nile." Lydgate's description of a ser- 
 pent is a personification of the bad passions of human 
 nature ; — 
 
 " Her taile burled with scales of silver sheen, 
 
 " The venom was so piercing and so keene. 
 
 " The worthy knight Parthonolope 
 
 " Was the first that happened for to see 
 
 '« This hideous serpent,- by a river side, 
 
 " Great and horrible, stern, and full of pride." 
 
 The history of Saint George and the Dragon was 
 formerly in high repute ; and though it is evidently 
 apocryphal, yet in all probability there formerly 
 existed an orthodox saint of that name. The eques- 
 trian figure worn by the Knights of the Garter has 
 been supposed to be an emblem of the Christian 
 
156 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 warrior in his spiritual armour vanquishing the Old 
 Serpent — the Devil. The champion saint of Eng- 
 land is thus described in his infancy : — 
 
 st Fair as the sweetest flower of spring, 
 
 Such was his infant mien ; 
 And on his little body stamp'd, 
 
 Three wondrous marks were seen. 
 A blood-red cross was on his arm, 
 
 A Dragon on his breast, 
 A little garter all of gold 
 
 Was round his leg express'd." 
 
 Mr. G. A. Stevens thus enumerates the popular 
 
 attributes of Saint George of England : — 
 
 " He invented life's balsam and golden elixir, 
 And conquered a Dragon as fierce as Old Nick, sir, 
 From forestallers, that means, he gave Albion relief ; 
 First brew'd good October, and roasted fat beef." 
 
 Thus the good deeds of saints, as well as the evil 
 deeds of sinners, become metamorphosed into super- 
 natural gifts or infernal monsters ; and, by the popu- 
 larity of such disguises, live in the memory, and 
 come down by tradition. 
 
 In Spenser's " Faerie Queen," we have an allegory 
 (a kindred subject to Saint George) of a lady suing 
 for the service of a knight to deliver her royal parents 
 from falling a prey to a monstrous dragon, — an ene- 
 my sufficiently formidable, since in his destructive 
 powers are pictured the ravages of the great enemy 
 of mankind. The Christian knight (holiness) armed 
 with spiritual armour, with ready zeal sets out with 
 the gentle Una and her little dwarf, where they dis- 
 cover, " within the navel of a wood," the monster 
 error, the prototype of Milton's sin, over which the 
 knight gains a complete victory, after many fears 
 on the part of the lady, and deeds of valour performed 
 by her devoted champion. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 157 
 
 A similar adventure is related in the Legend of 
 King Regner Lodbrog, a sea-rover of Denmark, who 
 signalized his youth by an exploit of gallantry. A 
 Swedish prince had a beautiful daughter, whom he 
 intrusted to the care of one of his officers. The officer 
 fell in love with his ward, and detained her in spite 
 of all the efforts of her father. Regner accomplished 
 her deliverance, and obtained her hand in marriage 
 as a reward for his achievement. The name of the 
 discourteous officer was Orme, which, in the Ice- 
 landic language, signifies serpent* Wherefore the 
 Scalds, to give a more poetical turn to the adventure, 
 represent the lady as detained from her father by a 
 dreadful dragon ! 
 
 The ocean-snake of the Northmen was not more 
 fully believed in by the writers of the Edda, than 
 was the land-snake of the old Northumbrians. 
 
 There is also a popular legend relating to the 
 Lambton family, in the county of Durham, accord- 
 ing to which, no chief of the Lambtons should die 
 on his bed for seven or, by some accounts, nine 
 generations, (a commutation which to a martial spirit 
 had probably nothing very terrible), simply because 
 it was a Lambton who succeeded in banishing the 
 snake or worm (the oppressor) from his father-land. 
 At first he was foiled in his encounters with the 
 monster, by the power it possessed of re-union; 
 eventually he added policy to courage, and clothed 
 himself with a coat of mail covered with blades of 
 the sharpest steel, a sort of sithe armour. He placed 
 himself on a crag in the river, and waited the serpent's 
 arrival. It came at the usual time, and wound itself 
 with great fury round the armed knight, and was cut 
 
158 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 in pieces by its own efforts, whilst the stream washed 
 away the several parts, and prevented the possibility 
 of re-union. 
 
 Lydgate's knight used an arrow to kill his dragon 
 with : — 
 
 "And in all haste he bent a sturdy bow, 
 And therein set an arrow filed keene, 
 And through the body, spotted blue and green, 
 Full mightily he made it for to glide." 
 
 Childe Wynd, however, had magical assistance to 
 accomplish his task. There was, at Bamburgh or 
 Bibbanburgh, a maiden who was transformed into a 
 stone, which is still remaining at the foot of the castle, 
 to wound him who has the obstinacy to run against 
 it. And it was doomed that Childe Wynd was the 
 only knight and " genuine imp of Chivalrie" to whom 
 was given the power of counteracting the charmed 
 one's enchantments. 
 
 Chaucer describes Bamburgh as the place to which 
 his Constance was driven by the Soudonnesse, in 
 " The Man of Lawe's Tale." 
 
 " She driveth forth unto one Oecian, 
 
 Throughout the wild see, tyl at the laste 
 
 Under han holde, that nempne I na can ; 
 
 For in Northumberlond the wave her cast, 
 
 And in the sande her shyppe styked so faste, 
 
 That thence noide it not of all a tyde, 
 
 The will of Christ was that she shud ther abyde. 
 
 The Constable of the Castle down is fare 
 
 To sene this wreck, and all the shyp he sought 
 
 And found this merry woman full of care. 
 
 The Constable and dame Hermegilde his wife 
 Were paynems in that country every where, 
 But Hermegilde loved her right as her lyfe, 
 And Constance hath so long sojourned there, 
 In orisons with many a bytter tear, 
 Tyl Jesus hath converted through his grace 
 Dame Hermegilde Constablesse of that place. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 159 
 
 In all that lond dursten no christen route, 
 All christen foike were fled from that countrie 
 Through paynems that conquered all about, 
 The plagues of the north by land and see, 
 To Wales fled the Christianyte, 
 Of olde Bretons dwelling in that He, 
 There was her refute for the mean while." 
 
 The witch Paganism then was an inmate of the 
 strong castle, and the worm or oppressor occupied 
 the Heitgh or height. But chivalry and Christianity, 
 with a due portion of gramercy, were coming, in the 
 person of the valiant Childe, to destroy the serpent 
 force, together with the old woman paganism, and to 
 release the imprisoned maiden, the genius of the land, 
 and thus restore liberty of person and conscience. 
 
 The precise time of these marvellous events is 
 unknown, as there are no historical data on which 
 to rest a settled opinion. The Saxons invited by 
 the Northumbrians may be represented by Childe 
 Wynd, or it may have been after the Danes had 
 deluged the country, but before their conquest, in 
 which case their encamped army was the worm. Or 
 the subject-matter of the exploit may have reference to 
 an earlier period, when the painted children of the 
 north, wandering in wild freedom, were wont to 
 disturb the quiet province of Valentia Caesaris, which 
 the Romans made and civilized. The Legend in all 
 probability belongs to a much more recent era, for the 
 obscure and figurative kept possession of ballad 
 poetry to a very late date, and the poets were fond 
 of inventing marvellous fictions of dragons, monsters, 
 giants, witches, and enchanters. 
 
 It is enough to shew that a serpent, a snake, or a 
 worm, is the favourite poetical personification of 
 cruelty and oppression. It generally refers to camps, 
 
160 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 which were often circular or inclined to the coiled 
 form ; and whenever a serpent or a worm appears 
 in topography, there will probably be found one of 
 these camps. It is so at Spindleston Heugh; and 
 may not the vermicular traces around the base of the 
 Worm Hill, at Lambton, have been the remains of 
 some entrenchments ? Looking fancifully at the re- 
 maining dykes now grown green, we may say that the 
 green serpent to this hour coils her snaky folds round 
 the several craggy eminences of Spindleston. This 
 conjecture indicates the Worm to be the camp of an 
 invading power; — that Laidley means loathsome; — * 
 that Heugh is height ; — and that a triumphant witch 
 or sorceress often indicates the temporary supremacy 
 of a false religion. The lady is a simple representa- 
 tion of faith or freedom ; and Childe is the earliest 
 word in our language for knight or hero. With these 
 explanations, this popular romance is sufficiently 
 obvious and intelligible. 
 
 Printed by W. Davison, Alnwick. 
 

 
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