They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die," Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand: Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion!Young Blount his armour did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said "By saint George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head!

Good night to Marmion."
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"
XXIX.

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:

"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
Cry- Marmion to the rescue!"-Vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!-
Yet my last thought is England's:-fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:

Tell him his squadrons up to bring:-
Fitz-Eustace, to lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield;
Edmund is down:--my life is reft;-
The admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,→
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.--
Must I bid twice?-hence, varlets, fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."-
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan.
And half he murmured,-"Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!"--

XXX.

0, woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made,-
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!-

Searce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran:
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears,
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn?-behold her mark A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell.

Above some half-worn letters say, Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray For the kind soul of Sybil Grey,

Who built this cross and well. She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.

XXXI.

Deep drank lord Marmion of the wave, And as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words are mine, to spare: Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"—

"Alas!" she said, "the while,

O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal;
She died at Holy Isle."
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents, from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!"-he said-"I knew
That the dark presage must be true.—
1 would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,

Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be!-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling mor.k.
XXXII.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch, the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was on his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dy ing!

So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O think on faith and bliss!---
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-Stanley! was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand, above his head,

He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!—

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"--
Were the last words of Marmion.
XXXIII.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor va'ward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home?-
O for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to king Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side,
Afar the royal standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!

In vain the wish-for, far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil's cross the plunderers stray.-
"O, lady," cried the monk, "away!"
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair

Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And, at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, lord Fitz-Clare.
XXXIV.

But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their king.
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;-
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well;

Til utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded king.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands;
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foeman know;
Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low,
They melted from the field as snow,

When streams are swoln and south winds blow,
Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,

Disordered, through her currents dash,

To gain the Scottish land;

To town and tower, to down and dale,

To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong;
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear
Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield!

XXXV.

Day dawns upon the mountain's side:-
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one,
The sad survivors all are gone.-
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon border castle high
Look northward with upbraiding eye;17
Nor cherish hope in vain,

That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The royal pilgrim to his land

May yet return again.

He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,

And fell on Flodden plain:

And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clenched within his manly hand,
Beseemed the monarch slain.

But, O! how changed since yon blith night!—
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.

XXXVI.
Short is my tale:-Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle,
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
Did long lord Marmion's image bear.
(Now vainly for its site you look;
Twas levelled, when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took;18
But, thanks to heaven, and good saint Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoiler had!)
There erst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,

His hands to heaven upraised;
And all around, on scutcheon rich,
And tablet carved, and fretted niche,

His arms and feats were blazed.
And yet, though all was carved so fair,
And priests for Marmion breathed the prayer
The last lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain
Followed his lord to Flodden plain,-
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay
In Scotland mourns as "wede away."
Sore wounded, Sybil's cross he spied,
And dragged him to its foot and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's side.
The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain,
And thus their corpses were mista❜en;
And thus, in the proud baron's tomb,
The lowly woodsman took the room.
XXXVII.

Less easy task it were, to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low.
They dug his grave e'en where he lay,
But every mark is gone;
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple cross of Sybil Grey,

And broke her font of stone.

But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still.
Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry;
And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel busk,
And plait their garlands fair;
Nor dream they sit upon the grave

That holds the bones of Marmion brave.—
When thou shalt find the little hill,
With thy heart commune, and be still.
If ever, in temptation strong,
Thou left'st the right path for the wrong:
If every devious step, thus trod,
Still lead thee further from the road;
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb;
But say, "He died a gallant knight,
With sword in hand, for England's right."
XXXVIII.

I do not rhyme to that dull elf,
Who cannot image to himself,
That all through Flodden's dismal night,
Wilton was foremost in the fight;
That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain,
'Twas Wilton mounted him again;
Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed,
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood,-
Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall,
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith made plain,
He won his rank and lands again;
And charged his old paternal shield
With bearings won on Flodden field.➡
Nor sing I to that simple maid,
To whom it must in terms be said,
That king and kinsmen did agree
To bless fair Clara's constancy;
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal's state;
That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke;
That bluff king Hal the curtain drew,
And Catherine's hand the stocking threw:
And afterwards, for many a day,
That it was held enough to say,
In blessing to a wedded pair,

"Love they like Wilton and like Clare!"
L'ENVOY TO THE READER.

Why, then, a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,
Who long have listed to my rede?*-
To statesman grave, if such may deign
To read the minstrel's idle strain,
Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit,
And patriotic heart-as PITT!
A garland for the hero's crest,
And twined by her he loves the best;
To every lovely lady bright,
What can I wish but faithful knight?
To every faithful lover too,
What can I wish but lady true?
And knowledge to the studious sage,
And pillow to the head of age.
To thee, dear schoolboy, whom my lay
Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task and merry holiday!

Used generally for tale, or discourse.

To all, to each, a fair good night,

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!

NOTES TO CANTO I.

1. As when the champion of the lake
Enters Morgana's fated house,
Or in the Chapel Perilous,

Despising spells and demons' force,

Holds converse with the unburied corse.-P. 55.

The Romance of the Morte Arthur contains a sort of abridgement of the most celebrated adventures of the Round Table; and, being written in comparatively modern language, gives the general reader an excellent idea of what romances of chivalry actually were. It has also the merit of being written in pure old English; and many of the wild adventures which it contains are told with a simplicity bordering upon the sublime. Several of these are referred to in the text; and I would have illustrated them by more full extracts, but as this curious work is about to be published, I confine myself to the tale of the Chapel Perilous, and of the quest of sir Launcelot after the Sangreal.

"Right so sir Launcelot departed; and when he came to the Chapell Perilous, he alighted downe, and tied his horse to a little gate. And as soon as he was within the church-yard, he saw, on the front of the chapell, many faire rich shields turned upside downe, and many of the shields sir Launcelot had seene knights have before; with that he saw stand by him thirtie great knights; more, by yard, than any man that ever he had seene, and all those grinned and gnashed at sir Launcelot; and when he saw their countenance, hee dread them sore, and so put his shield afore him, and tooke his sword in his hand, ready to doe battaile; and they were all armed in black harneis, ready, with their shields and swords drawn. And when sir Launcelot would have gone through them, they scattered on every side of him, and gave him the way; and therewith he waxed all bold, and entered into the chapell, and then hee saw no light but a dimme lampe burning, and then was hee ware of a corps covered with a cloath of silke; then sir Launcelot stooped downe, and cut a piece of that cloath away, and then it fared under him as if the earth had quaked a little, whereof he was afeared, and then he saw a faire sword lye by the dead knight, and that he gat in his hand, and hied him out of the chapell. As soon as he was in the chappell-yerd, all the knights spoke to him with a grimly voice, and said, 'knight sir Launcelot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt die.' Whether I live or die,' said sir Launcelot, with no great words get yee it againe, therefore fight for it and yee list. Therewith he passed through them; and, beyond the chappell-yerd, there met him a fair damosel, and said, "Sir Launcelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou wilt die for it.' 'I will not leave it,' said sir Launcelot, for no threats.' 'No!' said she, and ye did leave that sword, queene Guenever should ye never see.' Then were I a foole and I would leave this sword,' said sir Launcelot. Now, gentle knight,' said the damosel, 1 require thee to kisse me once. Nay,' said sir Launcelot, that, God forbid!' 'Well, sir,' said she, and thou haddest kissed me, thy life dayes had been done; but now, alas!' said she, I have lost all my labour; for I ordained this chappell for thy sake, and for sir Gawaine: and once I had sir Gawaine within it; and at that