Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;
And think what next he must have felt
At buckling of the falchion belt!
And judge how Clara changed her hue,
While fastening to her lover’s side
A friend, which, though in danger tried,
He once had found untrue!
Then Douglas struck him with his blade:
“Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,
I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton’s heir!
For king, for church, for lady fair,
See that thou fight.”
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,
Said—“Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,
Disgrace, and trouble;
For he, who honour best bestows,
May give thee double.”
De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must—
“Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust
That Douglas is my brother!”
“Nay, nay,” old Douglas said, “not so;
To Surrey’s camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother.
I have two sons in yonder field;
And, if thou meet’st them under shield
Upon them bravely—do thy worst;
And foul fall him that blenches first!”
