V.
Over hollow, and over height,
Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight
Who had wrought such woe to Eaglestein—
To him and the Lady Etheline.
The time has come and the wish made good,
The villain he met in the Calder Wood.
"Hold, hold, thou basest dastard Theou,
For Ceorl's a name thou'rt far below;
Ten lives like thine would not suffice
To be to my soul a sacrifice;
There is the glaive, it is thine to try.
Or with it or without it thou must die."
But the caitiff laughed a laugh of scorn:
"Come on, thou bastard of bastards born."
Their falchions are gleaming in bright mid-day:
They rushed like tigers upon their prey;
Sir Peregrine's eyes flashed liquid fire,
The caitiff's shone out with unholy ire;
But victory goes not aye with right,
Nor the race to those the quickest in flight.
Sir Peregrine's fury o'ershot his aim:
His sword breaks through—his arm is maim!
With nothing to wield, with nothing to ward.
No word of mercy or quarter heard;
With a breast-wound deep as his heart he lies,
A look of scorn—Sir Peregrine dies.
Behind the crumbling walls of Eaglestein,
The tomb of the old Yerls may still be seen,
And there long mouldering lay close side by side,
Sir Peregrine the bold and his fair bride;
Their ashes scattered now and blown away,
As thine and mine will be some coming day.
This world is surely an enchanted theme,
A thing of seims and shows—a wild fantastic dream.