Part 19 (1/2)

Short s.p.a.ce, few words, are mine to spare 940 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.'-- 945 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 950 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, 955 And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be!--this dizzy trance-- Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! 960 A sinful heart makes feeble hand.'

Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling Monk.

x.x.xII.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gus.h.i.+ng wound: 965 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; 970 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, 975 Shake not the dying sinner's sand!-- O, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine; O, think on faith and bliss!

By many a death-bed I have been, 980 And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this.'-- The war, that for a s.p.a.ce did fail, Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, And--STANLEY! was the cry;-- 985 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!-- 990 Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'

Were the last words of Marmion.

x.x.xIII.

By this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their King, 995 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, 1000 That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died!

Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, 1005 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, 1010 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!' 1015 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, And at the dawn of morning, there 1020 She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

x.x.xIV.

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 a.s.sail'd; 1025 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 whirlwinds go, 1030 Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, 1035 The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight; Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like n.o.ble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; 1040 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, 1045 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, 1050 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, 1055 To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail.

Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 1060 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 s.h.i.+ver'd was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her s.h.i.+eld!

x.x.xV.

Day dawns upon the mountain's side:-- There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and n.o.bles, many a one: The sad survivors all are gone.-- 1072 View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be; Nor to yon Border castle high, Look northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain, 1075 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, 1080 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! 1085 Gladly I turn me from the sight, Unto my tale again.

x.x.xVI.