When sense return’d to wake despair; 185
  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, 190
  With him I left my native strand,
And, in a Palmer’s weeds array’d
My hated name and form to shade,
  I journey’d many a land;
No more a lord of rank and birth, 195
But mingled with the dregs of earth. 
  Oft Austin for my reason fear’d,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
  Or wild mad schemes uprear’d. 200
My friend at length fell sick, and said,
  God would remove him soon: 
And, while upon his dying bed,
He begg’d of me a boon—­
If e’er my deadliest enemy 205
Beneath my brand should conquer’d 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, 210
  Full well the paths I knew. 
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perish’d of my wound,—­
  None cared which tale was true:  215
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his Palmer’s dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm’d my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass. 220
A chance most wondrous 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, 225
  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; 230
But in my bosom muster’d 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; 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,