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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 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!
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-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'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 bason fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
Drink, weary, pilgrim, drink, and pray,
For, the, kind, soul, of, Sybil, Grey,
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.

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."

She

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.

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."-

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