But at length, in old Arundel’s Castellan, When chilly and slow the life-blood ran, And he bask’d his old frame in its evening sun, And dreamed o’er the battles his youth had won; As musing he sat on yon battled keep, O’erlooking the forest and distant deep-- Come, bring me,’ quoth he, ‘my trusty sword!’ And swiftly his squire obeyed the word. Then swift from his seat Syr Bevis sprung, And thrice round his head the blade he swung-- ‘Now mark me well,’ said the chief, ‘and obey The command I leave, and the word I say: Where ye find again this trusty glaive, There hollow the ground for Bevis’s grave! For my eyes wax dim and my blood runs cold, And my heart of life hath lost its hold.’ He said: and fleet from his hand he threw The deadly weapon so tried and true; And away--as impelled by some nameless charm-- Like a shaft that’s shot by a wizard’s arm; Away the falchion glanced, and fell In the depth of Pugh’s deserted dell.-- That night there was mass for a parted soul; At St. Martin’s gate there was Christian dole; Where priest and vassal the dirge began, For <g>Syr Bevis</g> the warlike Castellan! Then they searched the shadowy forest round, And they hollowed a grave where the sword was found; And there they have laid each stiffened limb Of the brave Syr Bevis, the wise and grim. Where at noon the trooping deer convene, Where at night the timid hare is seen, Where the monk of St. Lazarus counts his beads, They have laid him down in his warrior’s weeds; They have monks to chant, and bells to toll-- And all for the rest of Syr Bevis’ soul. Now ye who visit that haunted dell, To count your beads in St. James’s cell, Or haply to slay Montgomery’s deer, Tread light on the ashes that slumber here.”