BALLADS. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. PREFATORY NOTE. [THE following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-9, says, "There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the twelfth century; that style which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. "On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with Old Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example, as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily discern." I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad, though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho, "God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a windmill? and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head."] "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Why dost thou haunt me?" Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow From the heart's chamber. No Saga taught thee! "Far in the Northern land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon; "Oft to his frozen lair Sang from the meadow. With the marauders. Set the cocks crowing, Filled to o'erflowing. Fell their soft splendour. Our vows were plighted. By the hawk frighted. When of old Hildebrand "While the brown ale he quaffed, The sea-foam brightly, And though she blushed and smiled, "Scarce had I put to sea, Among the Norsemen !- With twenty horsemen. When the wind failed us; Laugh as he hailed us. Through the black water! With his prey laden; "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, There for my lady's bower Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison-bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "Ofather! I hear the church-bells ring, O say what may it be?" ""Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, O say what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! ! THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 57 [The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart. of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; He rises at the banquet board, And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!" The butler hears the words with pain, Fill with red wine from Portugal!" The gray-beard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, "This glass of flashing crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it: If this glass doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! ""Twas right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! First rings it deep, and full, and mild, The glorious Luck of Edenhall. "For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang!-with a harder blow than all Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!" As the goblet ringing flies apart, The guests in dust are scattered all, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall. On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The gray-beard in the desert hall, He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!" THE ELECTED KNIGHT. FROM THE DANISH. [The following strange and 'somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation.] SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain, Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, But never, ah never can meet with the man A tilt with him dare ride. He saw under the hill-side A Knight full well equipped; His steed was black, his helm was barred; He was riding at full speed. He wore upon his spurs Twelve little golden birds; Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, And there sat all the birds and sang. He wore upon his mail Twelve little golden wheels; Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, And round and round the wheels they flew. He wore before his breast A lance that was poised in rest; And it was sharper than diamond-stone, It made Sir Olur's heart to groan. He wore upon his helm A wreath of ruddy gold; And that gave him the Maidens Three, The youngest was fair to behold. Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down; "Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, "So will I yield me unto thee." "I am not Christ the Great, Thou shalt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me be dight." "Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee be dight; So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, For all the Maidens' honour!" The first tilt they together rode They put their steeds to the test; Neither of them would yield; And their blood runs unto death; Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, The youngest sorrows till death. |