The Grey Palmer

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"By land, by sea," said the Palmer, "I have proved all that is terrible in danger, or awful in the strife of war. My arm wielded the truncheon with gallant Richard, the chiefest knight of the Holy Rood; and the Paynims of Acre, with their mighty Soldan, have quaked in the tumult of our crusaders. The storm of the Red Sea and the rage of open ocean have rattled in mine ear. I have crossed burning sands, and met the wild lords of the desert in harness of steel; but never was my soul so appalled as by the rage of elements this horrible night. To the sinner naught is so fearful as the workings of Almighty wrath in our lower world. I have visited every shrine of penitence and prayer to purge the stains of crime from this bosom: I have trodden each weary step to the Holy Sepulchre in Palestine; I have knelt to the Saints of Spain, of Italy, and of France; I have mourned before the shrine of St. Patrick, and every saint of Ireland; in Scotland I have drunk of every miraculous fount, and holy well; and but for the swollen waters of Wharfe, I had sought the grey towers of Cawood, or the fair Abbey of Selby, to crave prayers from the pure in heart for the worst of transgressors. At holy St. Thomas's tomb, my pilgrimage ends. But for the wicked there can be no rest. The pelting hailstorm, the dark red flashes of lightning and the flooded Wharfe, opposed my course. I wandered through the dark wood-the thunder roared among the groaning oaks-the ravenous wolf rushed from his den across my path, with open jaws, ready to devour me. A spectre, more fell than the savage beast, drove him away; the croaking raven and hooting owl sung a death-warning; and the spectre shrieked in mine ear, "Grey Palmer, thy bed of dark, chill, deep earth, and thy pillow of worms, are prepared. Thy childless bride waits to embrace thee!"

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