And, dashing through the battle plain,
His way to Surrey took.-
"The good Lord Marmion, by my life!
Welcome to danger's hour!-
Short greeting serves in time of strife.
Thus have I ranged my power: 34
Myself will rule this central host;
Stout Stanley fronts their right;
My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;3
Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rear-ward of the fight,
And succour those that need it most.
Now, gallant Marmion, well I know,
Would gladly to the vanguard go;
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,
With thee their charge will blithely share;
There fight thine own retainers too,
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true."-
"Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said;
Nor further greeting there he paid,
But, parting like a thunderbolt,
First in the vanguard made a halt,
Where such a shout there rose
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum--
Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.—
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth
And fiends in upper air!
Oh, life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair!
Long looked the anxious squires; their
Could in the darkness nought descry.
At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied,
'Twas vain! But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white-
The Howard's lion fell;
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle yell.
The Border slogan rent the sky-38
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry.
Loud were the clanging blows:
Advanced, forced back-now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose;
As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered 'mid the foes.
No longer Blount the view could bear:
By heaven, and all its saints, I swear,
I will not see it lost!
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer—39
I gallop to the host!"
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,-
The rescued banner rose:
But darkly closed the war around
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,
Then Eustace mounted too;--yet stayed,
As loth to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion's steed rushed by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.
Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone:
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.
The scattered van of England wheels;-
She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"—
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!"-
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,40
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?”
O 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!—
Scarce 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,41
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.
Tho. 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.42 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave;
And, as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said,
"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.
"Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose
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!"
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