Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

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;

For, oozing from the mountain’s side,

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;