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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 .

       For . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Gray .

       Who . built . this . cross . and . well . “

       She filled 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 shrive the dying, bless the dead.

       XXXI

      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 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!”

       “Alas!” she said, “the while,

       Oh, think of your immortal weal!

       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;

       Though in the action burst the tide

       In torrents, from his wounded side.

       “Then it was truth,” he said—”I knew

       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,

       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!

       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 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

       Of the Redeemer’s grace divine!

       Oh, think on faith and bliss!

       By many a deathbed I have been,

       And many a sinner’s parting seen,

       But never aught like this.”

       The war, that for a space did fail,

       Now trebly thundering swelled the gale

       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?

       Oh, 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,

       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 Sybil’s Cross the plunderers stray.

       “Oh, lady,” cried the monk, “away!”

       And placed her on her steed,

       And led her to the chapel fair,

       Of Tillmouth 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 hailed,

       In headlong charge their horse assailed;

       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,

       Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,

       Unbroken was the ring;

       The stubborn spearmen 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;

       Linked in the serried phalanx tight,

      

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