The scatter'd van of England wheels;
She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roar'd, 'Is Wilton there?'
They fly, or, madden'd by despair,
Fight butto die,-Is Wilton there?'
With that, straight up the hill there
rode

Two horsemen drench'd with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strain'd the broken brand; His arms were smear'd with blood and sand:

Dragg'd 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.' 'Unnurtur'd Blount! thy brawling

cease:

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 murmur'd, '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.

" peace!'

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 stoop'd 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 fill'd 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 ofthe wave,

Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in 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 dying!'

So the notes rung;

Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 'Or injur'd 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.
I 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 tranceCurse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly curs'd my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling Monk.

XXXII.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wound :

The Monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers.

O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
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 swell'd 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 vaward wing,

Where Huntly, 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 plac'd 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 hail'd, In headlong charge their horse assail'd; 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 whirl

winds go,

Then did their loss his foemen 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, Disorder'd, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to town 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 shiver'd was fair Scotland's

spear,

And broken was her shield!

XXXV.

View not that corpse mistrustfully,

good

Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood,

The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight; Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,

As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded King. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shatter'd bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, Sweep back to ocean blue.

Nor to yon Border castle high,
Look northward with upbraiding eye;

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 clench'd within his manly hand,
Beseem'd the monarch slain.
But, O! how changed since yon blithe
night!

Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.

XXXVI.

Short is my tale: Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierc'd 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 sight you look;
'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral storm'd and took;
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint
Chad,

A guerdon meet the spoiler had!)
Thereerst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,

His hands to heaven uprais'd; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carv'd, and fretted niche,

His arms and feats were blaz'd. And yet, though all was carv'd so fair, And priest for Marmion breath'd the prayer,

The last Lord Marmion lay not there. From Ettrick woods a peasant swain Follow'd 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 dragg'd him to its foot, and died, Close by the noble Marmion's side. The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd 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 bush,

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 led thee farther 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

hew'd,

Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood:
Unnam'd 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 charg'd 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;