Walter Scott - Marmion

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 farther 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.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which, (for far the day was spent,)
The western sunbeams now were bent.

The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view:

Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
‘Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.-
But see! look up-on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.’
And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and fast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland’s war,
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.-

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,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;
Oh, life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.

Long look’d the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;

And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.

Then mark’d they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flash’d amain;
Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stoop’d, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:

And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,
And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntly, and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;

Though there the western mountaineer
Rush’d 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, cheer’d 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 bark’s mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It waver’d ‘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,
Follow’d 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 sank among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too:-yet staid,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion’s steed rush’d 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.

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 scatter’d van of England wheels;-

She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roar’d, ‘Is Wilton there?’-
They fly, or, madden’d by despair,
Fight but to die,-’Is Wilton there?’-

With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drench’d with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strain’d the broken brand;
His arms were smear’d with blood and sand:

Dragg’d 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!
Good-night to Marmion.’-

‘Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes,’ said Eustace; ‘peace!’

When, doff’d 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 life-blood 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 wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmur’d,-‘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!’