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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: opes his " said Eustace; eyes,"




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 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 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! 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 wide, 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—

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'Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink . and . pray. For the kind. soul . of. Sybil . Grey .

Tho. 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 shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 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,-O think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; -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.

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With fruitless labour, Clara bound
And strove to stanch 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 !——

O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O, think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed 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.




HE western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.

But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass,
Huge as the tower which builders vain
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.
Their rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set

With cupola or minaret,

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