Now, as he touch'd his native sand,
And near his castle gate,
He saw the weeping widow stand,
And mock'd her mournful state.
"Woman, thy threats touch me no more,
I ride on safety's wing;
My brave horse brings me safe to shore,
With pardon from my king!"
"Kings seem to grant what God denies,
Trust my prophetic breath,"
(So the indignant dame replies)
"That horse shall prove thy death!"
She spoke, and with a voice so keen,
It search'd his inmost soul,
And caus'd a storm of fearful spleen,
Thro' his dark brain to roll
Half credulous, half wildly brave,
Now doubt, now rage prevails:
He stood like a black suspended wave,
Struck by two adverse gales.
A doubt by superstition nurst,
Made all just thoughts recede;
Frantic he wav'd his sword, and pierc'd
His life-preserving steed!
"Thy prophecies I thus destroy,"
He cried, "thou wretched crone;
Threats on my days no more employ,
But tremble for thy own."
Striding away, his steed he left
In his pure blood to roll,
He quickly, of all aid bereft,
Breath'd out his nobler soul.
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