'A word of vulgar augury,
That broke from me, I scarce knew why,
Brought on a village tale; 235
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, 240
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,) 245
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, 250
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, 255
And vindicate De Wilton's name.--
Perchance you heard the Abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of Hell,
That broke our secret speech--
It rose from the infernal shade, 260
Or featly was some juggle play'd,
A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,
When my name came among the rest.