XXI.

“Why need my tongue the issue tell? We ran our course—my charger fell; What could he ’gainst the shock of hell? I rolled upon the plain. High o’er my head, with threatening hand, The spectre took 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 prayed, The first time e’er I asked his aid, He plunged it in the sheath; And, on his courser mounting light, He seemed to vanish from my sight; The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night Sunk down upon the heath. ’Twere long to tell what cause I have To know his face, that met me there, Called by his hatred from the grave, To cumber upper air; Dead or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy.”