“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 e’er 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 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, 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.