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The southern entrance I pass'd through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,-
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.


HUS judging, for a little space

I listen'd, ere I left the place ;
But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they serv'd me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,

A mounted champion rise.
I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,
In single fight, and mix'd affray,

I myself may say,
Have borne me as a knight ;
But when this unexpected foe
Seem'd starting from the gulf below,---
I care not though the truth I show,-.

I trembled with affright ;
And as I placed in rest my spear,

My hand so shook for very fear,

I scarce could couch it right.


We ran

HY need my tongue the issue tell ?

our course,-my charger

fell ;What could he 'gainst the shock of hell ?

I roll’d upon the plain.
High o'er my head, with threatening hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand, -

Yet did the worst remain :
My dazzled eyes I upward cast, —
Not opening hell itself could blast

Their sight, like what I saw !
Full on his face the moonbeam strock,--
A face could never be mistook !
I knew the stern vindictive look,

And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead, -

I well believe the last ;
For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare

So grimly and so ghast. Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; But when to good Saint George I pray'd, (The first time e'er I ask'd his aid,)

He plunged it in the sheath ;
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seem'd to vanish from my sight :
The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest night

Sunk down upon the heath.-
'Twere long to tell what cause I have

To know his face, that met me there,
Call’d by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber

upper Dead or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy.”—

air :



ARVELL'D Sir David of the Mount;

Then, learn’d in story, 'gan recount Such chance had happ'd of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight,

With Brian Bulmer boid,

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