XXII.
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‘Of middle air the demons proud,Who ride upon the racking cloud,Can read, in fixed or wandering star,The issues of events afar;But still their sullen aid withhold,Save when by mightier force controlled.Such late I summoned to my hall;And though so potent was the call,That scarce the deepest nook of hellI deemed a refuge from the spell,Yet, obstinate in silence still,The haughty demon mocks my skill.But thou—who little know’st thy might,As born upon that blessèd nightWhen yawning graves, and dying groan,Proclaimed hell’s empire overthrown—With untaught valour shalt compelResponse denied to magic spell.’‘Gramercy,’ quoth our monarch free,Place him but front to front with me,And by this good and honoured brand,The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,The demon shall a buffet bide.’His bearing bold the wizard viewed,And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed:‘There spoke the blood of Malcolm!—mark:Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,The rampart seek, whose circling crownCrests the ascent of yonder down:A southern entrance shalt thou find;There halt, and there thy bugle wind,And trust thine elfin foe to see,In guise of thy worst enemy:Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed—Upon him! and Saint George to speed!If he go down, thou soon shalt knowWhate’er these airy sprites can show;If thy heart fail thee in the strife,I am no warrant for thy life.’
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