Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,
And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,

By many a tender word delay'd,
And modest blush, and bursting sigh,

And question kind, and fond reply.

66

VI.

De Wilton's History.

Forget we that disastrous day,

When senseless in the lists I lay.

Thence dragg'd, but how I cannot know,

For sense and recollection fled,—

I found me on a pallet low,

Within my ancient beadsman's shed. Austin,-remember'st thou, my Clare,

How thou didst blush, when the old man,
When first our infant love began,

Said we would make a matchless pair?—
Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled

From the degraded traitor's bed,—

He, only, held my burning head,

And tended me for many a day,

While wounds and fever held their sway.
But far more needful was his care,
When sense return'd to wake despair;
For I did tear the closing wound,

And dash me frantic on the ground,
If e'er I heard the name of Clare.

At length, to calmer reason brought,
Much by his kind attendance wrought,
With him I left my native strand,

And, in a palmer's weeds array'd,
My hated name and form to shade,
I journey'd many a land;

No more a lord of rank and birth,
But mingled with the dregs of earth.
Oft Austin for my reason fear'd,

When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
Or wild mad schemes uprear'd.

My friend at length fell sick, and said,

God would remove him soon ;

And, while upon his dying bed,
He begg'd of me a boon-

If e'er

my deadliest enemy

Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie,

Even then my mercy should awake,

And spare his life for Austin's sake.

VII.

"Still restless as a second Cain,

To Scotland next my route was ta'en,
Full well the paths I knew.

Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,

That I had perish'd of my wound,

None cared which tale was true:

And living eye could never guess

De Wilton in his palmer's dress;

For, now that sable slough is shed,

And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head,

I scarcely knew me in the glass.

A chance most wond'rous did provide, That I should be that Baron's guide

I will not name his name!—

Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But, when I think on all my wrongs,
My blood is liquid flame!

And ne'er the time shall I forget,

When, in a Scottish hostel set,

Dark looks we did exchange:

What were his thoughts I cannot tell;

But in

my bosom muster'd Hell

Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII.

"A word of vulgar augury,

That broke from me, I scarce knew why,

Brought on a village tale ;

Which wrought upon his moody sprite,

And sent him armed forth by night.

I borrow'd steed and mail,

And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door,

We met, and 'counter'd hand to hand,— He fell on Gifford-moor.

For the death-stroke my brand I drew,

(O then

my helmed head he knew,

The palmer's cowl was gone,)

Then had three inches of my blade
The heavy debt of vengeance paid,--
My hand the thought of Austin staid ;
I left him there alone.-

O, good old man! even from the grave,
Thy spirit could thy master save:
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er
Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear,
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame,
And vindicate De Wilton's name.-

Perchance you

heard the Abbess tell

Of the strange pageantry of Hell,