“Fitz-Eustace! rise,—I cannot rest;—
Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,
And graver thoughts have chafed my mood;
The air must cool my feverish blood;
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed;
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;
I would not, that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale.”
Then softly down the steps they slid;
Eustace the stable door undid,
And darkling, Marmion’s steed arrayed,
While, whispering, thus the baron said:—