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      The golden raven flew.[1]

      "Behold," he cries, and waves his lance,

      "Where yon proud turrets rise;

      Of those who prove war's glorious toil,

      Let beauty be the prize.

      "There gold and beauty both are found,

      Then follow where I lead;

      And quickly know you have not fought

      For honour's empty meed."

      He said: and press'd to gain the hill,

      His shouting train pursue;

      And, fir'd by hopes of brutal joys,

      Behold the prize in view.

      Young Edwy mark'd their near approach,

      And rush'd t' oppose their way;

      Nor did, with equal ardour fir'd,

      Behind Hermanrick stay.

      Like mountain boars, the brother chiefs

      On Denmark's warriors flew;

      And those who held the foremost ranks,

      Their fury overthrew.

      Soon, pierc'd by Edwy's fatal lance,

      Lay valiant Turkil here,

      There Hardicanute bit the dust,

      Beneath Hermanrick's spear.

      But vain is courage, strength, or skill,

      Where two oppose an host;

      A dart, with sure and deadly aim,

      At Edwy Hubba tost.

      His sister, who, o'erpower'd by grief,

      Had fainted on the floor,

      Recover'd by the matron's care,

      Now sought the abbey door.

      When on the fated carnag'd spot,

      She cast her weeping eyes;

      "O blessed Mary!" cries the maid,

      "My brother bleeds and dies."

      Then forth she ran and gain'd the place;

      Where, press'd by crowds of foes,

      Hermanrick stood—the shades of death

      Her brother's eyelids close.

      The furious Dane nor pity knew

      Nor stay'd his vengeful arm;

      Nor aught avails that heavenly face,

      Which might a tiger charm.

      First on th' unguarded chief he rush'd,

      And bore him to the ground;

      The helpless damsel's plaint of woe,

      In war's loud shout is drown'd.

      She saw Hermanrick's quiv'ring lips,

      She mark'd his rolling eye;

      She faints, she falls; before her sight

      Death's visions dimly fly.

      "And, O thou dear and much-lov'd youth,"

      The dying virgin cried;

      "Howe'er in life I wrong'd thy truth,

      Yet true with thee I died."

      She spoke no more—e'en Hubba felt

      The force of love sincere;

      Then first his breast confess'd the sigh,

      Then first his cheek the tear.

      "And, O my friends, the rage of war,"

      He cries, "awhile forbear;

      And to their weeping kindred straight

      These breathless bodies bear.

      "Or fear the wrath of Powers Divine—"

      Nor could he further say;

      But quickly with disorder'd march,

      Bent to his ships his way.

      For now was heard Earl Osrick's horn,

      Shrill sounding through the dale;

      And now Lord Redwald's ruddy cross

      Was waving to the gale.

      His tardy aid Earl Osrick brought

      Too late, alas! to save;

      And far beyond th' avenging sword

      The Dane now rode the wave.

      Grief seized the warrior's heart, to see

      In dust young Edwy laid;

      And stretch'd by brave Hermanrick's side

      Fair Athelgiva dead.

      But on the holy cross he swore

      A brave revenge to take,

      On Denmark's proud and bloody sons,

      For Athelgiva's sake.

      This vow in Kenwurth's glorious field

      The gallant earl did pay;

      When Alfred's better star prevail'd,

      And England had her day.

      That day the Dane full dearly paid

      The price of lovers' blood:

      That day in Hubba's cloven helm

      The Saxon javelin stood.

      The bodies of the hapless three

      A single grave contains;

      And in the choir, with dirges due,

      Are laid their cold remains.

      Lord Ardolph on his children's tomb

      Inscribed th' applauding verse;

      And long the monks, in gothic rhyme,

      Their story did rehearse.

      And often pointing to the skies,

      The cloister'd maids would cry,

      "To those bright realms, in bloom of youth,

      Did Athelgiva fly."

THE BATTLE OF CUTON MOORE.

       Table of Contents

      In the year 1138, David, king of Scotland, invaded the north of England with a numerous army, in aid of the claim of the empress Matilda, his niece, against king Stephen. The fury of his massacres and ravages enraged the northern barons, who assembled an army and encamped near Northallerton. On Monday the 22nd of August, 1138, the standard was raised on Cowton Moor, three miles north of Northallerton, and after a severe contest the Scots were defeated and ten thousand of their number slain; the rest, with king David and prince Henry his son, retreated with difficulty to Carlisle. This engagement is sometimes called the Battle of Northallerton, but generally the Battle of the Standard, from a long pole,

      "Like the mast of some tall ammiral,"

      which Thurstan, archbishop of York, brought from the convent of Beverley. This was drawn on a four-wheeled carriage; and had on the top of it a silver crucifix,

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