Long looked the anxious squires; their eye And plumed crests of chieftains brave, But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; But as they left the darkening heath, In headlong charge their horse assailed: 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, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good Each stepping where his comrade stood, No thought was there of dastard flight; Till utter darkness closed her wing 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, Disordered, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, DEATH OF MARMION. When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where' Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare? Redeem my pennon-charge again! Last of my race, on battle plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again! Tell him his squadrons up to bring. The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire- Or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice? Hence, varlets! fly! They parted, and alone he lay; Clare drew her from the sight away Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmured "Is there none, Of all my halls have nursed, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst!" O, woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; 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; She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain wide, 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. To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave "Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my Then, as remembrance rose head?" "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; O think of your immortal weal! 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. It may not be!-this dizzy trance- With fruitless labour Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wound: |