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When here we meet again." He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair,
Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle plain,
His way to Surrey took.
- The good Lord Marmion, by my life! Welcome to danger's hour ! Short greeting serves in time of strife!
Thus have I ranged my power: Myself will rule this central host,
Stout Stanley fronts their right, My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rearward of the fight, And succour those that need it most.
Now gallant Marmion, well I know,
Would gladly to the vanguard go: Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will blithely share; There fight thine own retainers too Beneath De Burg, thy steward true. “Thanks, noble Surrey!” Marmion said, Nor further greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt,
Where such a shout there rose Of "Marmion! Marmion!” that the cry, Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close. — They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
And triumph and despair.
But nought distinct they see:
Wild and disorderly.
Although against them come
With Huntly and with Home.
The Howard's lion fell;
Around the battle-yell.
Loud were the clanging blows: [high Advanced,-forced back,-now low, now
The pennon sunk and rose ;
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
Unworthy office here to stay !
And sudden, as he spoke,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march ; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered '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, Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large,
The rescued banner rose, But darkly closed the war around, Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too :—yet stayed As loth 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 rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast
To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.
And see the deep cut on his head.
Good night to Marmion!""Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace !" When, doffed 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 ? Redeem my pennon,-charge again! Cry, 'Mármion 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
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,
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 nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring
To slake my dying thirst?" O Woman! our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made, 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.
Sees but the dying man.
But in abhorrence backward drew,
Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ?-behold her mark
A little fountain cell,
In a stone basin fell.
DEATH OF MARMION.
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 scattered van of England wheels:
She only said, as loud in air
Fight but to die,—“Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
Said, “By Saint George he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped,
Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink. wearp. pilgrim. drink, and. pray for the kind . soul. of. Sibyl. Grey.
Uuno . 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.
Oh, think on faith and bliss.
But never aught like this.
And-STANLEY! was the cry.
And fired his glazing eye;.
And shouted “Victory !
Were the last words of Marmion.
CLOSE OF THE BATTLE.
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.
Alas!" she said, "the while !
She died at Holy Isle.'
Would spare me but a day!
Might bribe him for delay.
For that she ever sung, In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans So the notes rung;
[of the dying !" "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;
By this, though deep the evening fell,
Where Huntly, and where Home?
That to King Charles did come,
On Roncesvallès 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 havock mark their way, Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray.-"O 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. 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
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,
The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing Oer their thin host and wounded King. Then skilful Surrey s sage commands Led back from strite his shattered bands;
And from the charge they drew, 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, When streams are swoln and south winds Dissolves in silent dew.
[blow, Tweed s echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
To gain the Scottish land;
Of Flodden's fatal field,
| EVENING IN THE TROSSACHS.
THE western waves of ebbing day
Day dawns upon the mountain's side :-
Nor cherish hope in vain,
May yet return again.
And fell on Flodden plain;
beseemed the monarch slain. (night! Eut, oh! how changed since yon blithe Gladly I turn me from the sight.
Affording scarce such breadth of brim
A Chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
And now, to issue from the glen,
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. AND ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow: What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread. What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear!
BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE.
Nor ripple on the lake ;
The deer has sought the brake;
The springing trout lies still,
Benledi's distant hill.
That mutters deep and dread,
The warriors' measured tread?
'That on the thicket streams,
The sun's retiring beams? -I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star, Snood, the fillet worn round the hair of maidens.