Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntley and with Home.
XXVII
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied,
‘Twas vain:- But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland’s fight.
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.
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;
As bends the barque’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-trees, 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.
XXVIII
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
The tumult roared, “Is Wilton there?”
They fly, or, maddened by despair,
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.
His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses’ feet,
With dinted shield 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,
Said—‘By Saint George, he’s gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped -
And see, the deep cut on his head!
Goodnight to Marmion.”
“Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes,” said Eustace; “peace!”
XXIX
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—‘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,
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 lifeblood stains the spotless shield
Edmund is down:- my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire -
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland’s central host,
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,
Till pain rung 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?”
XXX
O woman! in 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:
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel’s side,
But in abhorrence backward drew;