What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?—

I rolled 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 strook,

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 visor 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 prayed,

(The first time e'er I asked his aid,)

He plunged it in the sheath;

And, on his courser mounting light,

He seemed to vanish from my sight:

The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night Sunk down upon the heath.

'Twere long to tell what cause I have

To know his face, that met me there,

Called by his hatred from the grave
To cumber upper air:

Dead, or alive, good cause had he

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount;

Then, learned 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 bold,

And trained him nigh to disallow

The aid of his baptismal vow.

"And such a phantom, too, 'tis said,

With Highland broad-sword, targe, and plaid,

And fingers red with gore,

Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,

Or where the sable pine-trees shade

Dark Tomantoul, and Achnaslaid,

Dromouchty, or Glenmore.*

And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,

On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold

These midnight terrors vain;
For seldom have such spirits power

To harm, save in the evil hour,

* See the traditions concerning Bulmer, and the spectre called Lhumdearg, or Bloody-hand, in a note on Canto III.