from Harold the Dauntless

by Walter Scott

Gray towers of Durham! there was once a time
I view’d your battlements with such vague hope,
As brightens life in its first dawning prime;
Not that e’en then came within fancy’s scope
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope;

Yet, gazing on the venerable hall,
Her flattering dreams would in perspective ope
Some reverend room, some prebendary’s stall,
And thus Hope me deceived as she deceiveth all.
Well yet I love thy mix’d and massive piles,

Half church of God, half castle ’gainst the Scot,
And long to roam these venerable aisles,
With records stored of deeds long since forgot,
There might I share my Surtees’ happier lot,
Who leaves at will his patrimonial field

To ransack every crypt and hallow’d spot,
And from oblivion rend the spoils they yield,
Restoring priestly chant and clang of knightly shield.
Vain is the wish—since other cares demand
Each vacant hour, and in another clime;

But still that northern harp invites my hand,
Which tells the wonder of thine earlier time;
And fain its numbers would I now command
To paint the beauties of that dawning fair,
When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand

Upon the western heights of Beaurepaire,
Saw Saxon Eadmer’s towers begirt by winding Wear.