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, In torrents from his wounded side. 'Then it was truth,' he said 'I knew That the dark presage must be true. For wasting fire, and dying groan, Might bribe him for delay. It may not be! this dizzy trance Curse on yon base marauder's lance, XXXII With fruitless labour Clara bound And strove to staunch 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 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. 'Avoid thee, Fiend! - with cruel hand Shake not the dying sinner's sand! Oh! look, my son, upon yon sign The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, A light on Marmion's visage spread, 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, That to King Charles did come, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blasts 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 Sibyl'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, She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. XXXIV But as they left the darkening heath In headlong charge their horse assailed; That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good 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, 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 shattered bands; As mountain-waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. 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 southwinds 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, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear |