Marmion

So sore was the delirious goad, 
I took my steed, and forth I rode, 
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,  
Soon reach’d the camp upon the wold.

The southern entrance I pass’d through, 
And halted, and my bugle blew.

Methought an answer met my ear,- 
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 
So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
It might be echo of my own. 

XX.

‘Thus judging, for a little space 
I listen’d, ere I left the place; 
  But scarce could trust my eyes, 
Nor yet can think they serve me true, 
When sudden in the ring I view, 
In form distinct of shape and hue, 
  A mounted champion rise.-

I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 
In single fight, and mix’d affray, 
And ever, I myself may say, 
  Have borne me as a knight; 
But when this unexpected foe 
Seem’d starting from the gulf below,- 
I care not though the truth I show,- 
  I trembled with affright;

And as I placed in rest my spear, 
My hand so shook for very fear, 
I scarce could couch it right.     

XXI.

‘Why need my tongue the issue tell? 
We ran our course,-my charger fell;- 
What could he ‘gainst the shock of hell? 
  I roll’d upon the plain. 
High o’er my head, with threatening hand, 
The spectre shook his naked brand,- 
  Yet did the worst remain:

My dazzled eyes I upward cast,- 
Not opening hell itself could blast 
  Their sight, like what I saw!      
Full on his face the moonbeam strook!- 
A face could never be mistook! 
I knew the stern vindictive look, 
  And held my breath for awe.

I saw the face of one who, fled   
To foreign climes, has long been dead,- 
  I well believe the last; 
For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stare 
A human warrior, with a glare 
  So grimly and so ghast.       

Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade; 
But when to good Saint George I pray’d, 
(The first time e’er I ask’d his aid), 
  He plunged it in the sheath; 
And, on his courser mounting light, 
He seem’d to vanish from my sight: 
The moonbeam droop’d, and deepest night 
  Sunk down upon the heath.-

    ‘Twere long to tell what cause I have 
      To know his face, that met me there, 
    Call’d by his hatred from the grave, 
      To cumber upper air: 
Dead, or alive, good cause had he 
To be my mortal enemy.’