Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,
And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,
By many a tender word delayed,
And modest blush and bursting sigh,
And question kind, and fond reply.

VI.

De Wilton's History.

Forget we that disastrous day,

When senseless in the lists I lay.

Thence dragged,--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 returned, 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 arrayed, My hated name and form to shade, I journeyed many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft, Austin for my reason feared,

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

My friend at length fell sick, and said,

God would remove him soon;

And while upon his dying bed,
He begged of me a boon-
If ere my deadliest enemy

Beneath my brand should conquered 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 perished 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 trimmed my shaggy beard and head,

I scarcely know 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 mustered 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 borrowed steed and mail,

And weapons, from his sleeping band;
And, passing from a postern door,
We met, and 'countered, hand to hand,—
He fell on Gifford-moor.

For the death-stroke my brand I drew,

(0 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