'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, 425
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! 430
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 435
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. 440
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, 445
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, 450
Call'd by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air:
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.'