XXVI. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; The broken billows of the war, But nought distinct they see: Wide rag'd the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: And stainless Tunstall's banner white, And Edmund Howard's lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight: Although against them come, Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntly, and with Home. XXVII. Far on the left, unseen the while, plied. 'Twas vain :-But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheer'd 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! The pennon sunk and rose; It waver'd '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, I gallop to the host.' And to the fray he rode amain, Follow'd by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large, The rescued banner rose, But darkly clos'd the war around, Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too:-yet staid As loath 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 rush'd by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast To mark he would return in haste, Then plung'd into the fight. XXVIII. 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 scatter'd van of England wheels; Two horsemen drench'd with gore, A wounded knight they bore. and sand: Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, Said By Saint George, he's gone! cease: Let Stanley charge with spur of With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Leave Marmion here alone-to die." Clare drew her from the sight away, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to Of blessed water from the spring, XXX. O Woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; A ministering angel thou! 'peace!' Scarce were the piteous accents said, To the nigh streamlet ran : She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; A little fountain cell, Above, some half-worn letters say, 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 of the wave, And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave 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!' Would spare me but a day! 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. Ever, he said, that, close and near, '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, O, think on faith and bliss! 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, 'O, Lady,' cried the Monk, 'away!' 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, Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield! XXXV. Day dawns upon the mountain's side: Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, The sad survivors all are gone. Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men 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; 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. View not that corpse mistrustfully, Nor cherish hope in vain, 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, XXXVI. Short is my tale: Fitz-Eustace' care A guerdon meet the spoiler had!) 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. But yet from out the little hill Oozes the slender springlet still; Oft halts the stranger there, And shepherd boys repair And plait their garlands fair; wrong; If every devious step, thus trod, doom On noble Marmion's lowly tomb; XXXVIII. I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 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: They dug his grave e'en where he lay, With bearings won on Flodden Field. But every mark is gone; Time's wasting hand has done away The simple Cross of Sybil Grey, And broke her font of stone: Nor sing I to that simple maid, |