Part 18 (2/2)

'Twas vain:--But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight. 805 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. 810 The Border slogan rent the sky!

A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced,--forced back,--now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose; 815 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It waver'd 'mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear: 'By Heaven, and all its saints! I swear 820 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, 825 Follow'd by all the archer train.

The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a s.p.a.ce, an opening large,-- The rescued banner rose,-- But darkly closed the war around, 830 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground, It sank among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too:--yet staid, As loath to leave the helpless maid, When, fast as shaft can fly, 835 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle b.l.o.o.d.y red, Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840 A look and sign to Clara cast, To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.

XXVIII.

Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone: 845 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;-- She only said, as loud in air 850 The tumult roar'd, 'Is Wilton there?'-- They fly, or, madden'd by despair, Fight but to die,--'Is Wilton there?'-- With that, straight up the hill there rode Two hors.e.m.e.n drench'd with gore, 855 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, 860 With dinted s.h.i.+eld, 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, 865 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: 870 He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace!'

XXIX.

When, doff'd 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! 875 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, 880 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 s.h.i.+eld: 885 Edmund is down;--my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,-- With Chester charge, and Lancas.h.i.+re, Full upon Scotland's central host, 890 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, 895 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, 900 To slake my dying thirst!'

x.x.x.

O, Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; 905 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: 910 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; 915 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, 920 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 .

925 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 930 To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.

x.x.xI.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave-- 'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 935 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?'

Then, as remembrance rose,-- 'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!

I must redress her woes.

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