Classic Poem

I

While great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,
And the demeanor, changed and cold,
Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuffed the battle from afar,
And hopes were none that back again
Herald should come from Terouenne,
Where England's king in leaguer lay,
Before decisive battle-day,—
While these things were, the mournful Clare
Did in the dame's devotions share;
For the good countess ceaseless prayed
To Heaven and saints her sons to aid,
And with short interval did pass
From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high baronial pride,—
A life both dull and dignified:
Yet, as Lord Marmion nothing pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear
The formal state, the lengthened prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.

II

I said Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vexed the sky,
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.
Above the rest a turret square
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas blood.
The turret held a narrow stair,
Which, mounted, gave you access where
A parapet's embattled row
Did seaward round the castle go.
Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,
Sometimes in platform broad extending,
Its varying circle did combine
Bulwark, and bartizan, and line,
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign.
Above the booming ocean leant
The far-projecting battlement;
The billows burst in ceaseless flow
Upon the precipice below.
Where'er Tantallon faced the land,
Gate—works and walls were strongly manned;
No need upon the sea-girt side:
The steepy rock and frantic tide
Approach of human step denied,
And thus these lines and ramparts rude
Were left in deepest solitude.

III

And, for they were so lonely, Clare
Would to these battlements repair,
And muse upon her sorrows there,
 And list the sea-bird's cry,
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side,
And ever on the heaving tide
 Look down with weary eye.
Oft did the cliff and swelling main
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane,—
A home she ne'er might see again;
 For she had laid adown,
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,
And frontlet of the cloister pale,
 And Benedictine gown:
It were unseemly sight, he said,
A novice out of convent shade.—
Now her bright locks with sunny glow
Again adorned her brow of snow;
Her mantle rich, whose borders round
A deep and fretted broidery bound,
In golden foldings sought the ground;
Of holy ornament, alone
Remained a cross with ruby stone;
 And often did she look
On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound and broidered o'er,
 Her breviary book.
In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale or twilight dim,
 It fearful would have been
To meet a form so richly dressed,
With book in hand, and cross on breast,
 And such a woful mien.
Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practise on the gull and crow,
Saw her at distance gliding slow,
 And did by Mary swear
Some lovelorn fay she might have been,
Or in romance some spell-bound queen,
For ne'er in work-day world was seen
 A form so witching fair.

IV

Once walking thus at evening tide
It chanced a gliding sail she spied,
And sighing thought—‘The abbess there
Perchance does to her home repair;
Her peaceful rule, where Duty free
Walks hand in hand with Charity,
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow
That the enraptured sisters see
High vision and deep mystery,—
The very form of Hilda fair,
Hovering upon the sunny air
And smiling on her votaries' prayer.
Oh! wherefore to my duller eye
Did still the Saint her form deny?
Was it that, seared by sinful scorn,
My heart could neither melt nor burn?
Or lie my warm affections low
With him that taught them first to glow?
Yet, gentle abbess, well I knew
To pay thy kindness grateful due,
And well could brook the mild command
That ruled thy simple maiden band.
How different now, condemned to bide
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride!—
But Marmion has to learn ere long
That constant mind and hate of wrong
Descended to a feeble girl
From Red de Clare, stout Gloster's Earl:
Of such a stem a sapling weak,
He ne'er shall bend, although he break.

V

‘But see!—what makes this armor here?’—
 For in her path there lay
Targe, corselet, helm; she viewed them near.—
‘The breastplate pierced!—Ay, much I fear,
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear,
That hath made fatal entrance here,
 As these dark blood-gouts say.—
Thus Wilton!—Oh! not corselet's ward,
Not truth, as diamond pure and hard,
Could be thy manly bosom's guard
 On yon disastrous day!’—
She raised her eyes in mournful mood,—
Wilton himself before her stood!
It might have seemed his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost,
And joy unwonted and surprise
Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.—
Expect not, noble dames and lords,
That I can tell such scene in words:
What skilful limner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,
Unless to mortal it were given
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
Far less can my weak line declare
 Each changing passion's shade:
Brightening to rapture from despair,
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,
And joy with her angelic air,
And hope that paints the future fair,
 Their varying hues displayed;
Each o'er its rival's ground extending,
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending,
Till all fatigued the conflict yield,
And mighty love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,
By many a tender word delayed,
And modest blush, and bursting sigh,
And question kind, and fond reply:—

VI

DE WILTON'S HISTORY

‘Forget we that disastrous day
When senseless in the lists I lay.
 Thence dragged,—but how I cannot know,
  For sense and recollection fled,—
 I found me on a pallet low
  Within my ancient beadsman's shed.
 Austin,—remember'st thou, my Clare,
How thou didst blush when the old man,
When first our infant love began,
 Said we would make a matchless pair?—
Menials and friends and kinsmen fled
From the degraded traitor's bed,—
He only held my burning head,
And tended me for many a day
While wounds and fever held their sway.
But far more needful was his care
When sense returned to wake despair;
 For I did tear the closing wound,
 And dash me frantic on the ground,
If e'er I heard the name of Clare.
At length, to calmer reason brought,
Much by his kind attendance wrought,
 With him I left my native strand,
And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed,
My hated name and form to shade,
 I journeyed many a land,
No more a lord of rank and birth,
But mingled with the dregs of earth.
 Oft Austin for my reason feared,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge and deeds of blood,
 Or wild mad schemes upreared.
My friend at length fell sick, and said
 God would remove him soon;
And while upon his dying bed
 He begged of me a boon—
If e'er my deadliest enemy
Beneath my brand should conquered lie,
Even then my mercy should awake
And spare his life for Austin's sake.

VII

‘Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta'en,
 Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perished of my wound,—
 None cared which tale was true;
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his palmer's dress,
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimmed my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass.
A chance most wondrous did provide
That I should be that baron's guide—
 I will not name his name!—
Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But, when I think on all my wrongs,
 My blood is liquid flame!
And ne'er the time shall I forget
When, in a Scottish hostel set,
 Dark looks we did exchange:
What were his thoughts I cannot tell,
But in my bosom mustered Hell
 Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII

‘A word of vulgar augury
That broke from me, I scarce knew why,
 Brought on a village tale,
Which wrought upon his moody sprite,
And sent him armed forth by night.
 I borrowed steed and mail
And weapons from his sleeping band;
 And, passing from a postern door,
We met and 'countered, hand to hand,—
 He fell on Gifford-moor.
For the death-stroke my brand I drew,—
Oh! then my helmed head he knew,
 The palmer's cowl was gone,—
Then had three inches of my blade
The heavy debt of vengeance paid,—
My hand the thought of Austin stayed;
 I left him there alone.—
O good old man! even from the grave
Thy spirit could thy master save:
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er
Had Whitby's abbess in her fear
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame
And vindicate De Wilton's name.—
Perchance you heard the abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of hell
 That broke our secret speech—
It rose from the infernal shade,
Or featly was some juggle played,
 A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best
When my name came among the rest.

IX

‘Now here within Tantallon hold
To Douglas late my tale I told,
To whom my house was known of old.
Won by my proofs, his falchion bright
This eve anew shall dub me knight.
These were the arms that once did turn
The tide of fight on Otterburne,
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield
When the Dead Douglas won the field.
These Augus gave—his armorer's care
Ere morn shall every breach repair;
For nought, he said, was in his halls
But ancient armor on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and gray—haired men;
The rest were all in Twisel glen.
And now I watch my armor here,
By law of arms, till midnight 's near;
Then, once again a belted knight,
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light.

X

‘There soon again we meet, my Clare!
This baron means to guide thee there:
Douglas reveres his king's command,
Else would he take thee from his band.
And there thy kinsman Surrey, too,
Will give De Wilton justice due.
Now meeter far for martial broil,
Firmer my limbs and strung by toil,
Once more’—‘O Wilton! must we then
Risk new-found happiness again,
 Trust fate of arms once more?
And is there not an humble glen
 Where we, content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade,
A shepherd thou, and I to aid
 Thy task on dale and moor?—
That reddening brow!—too well I know
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow
 While falsehood stains thy name:
Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!
Clare can a warrior's feelings know
 And weep a warrior's shame,
Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel,
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel
And belt thee with thy brand of steel,
 And send thee forth to fame!’

XI

That night upon the rocks and bay
The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay,
And poured its silver light and pure
Through loophole and through embrasure
 Upon Tantallon tower and hall;
But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel's pride
 The sober glances fall.
Much was there need; though seamed with scars,
Two veterans of the Douglas' wars,
 Though two gray priests were there,
And each a blazing torch held high,
You could not by their blaze descry
 The chapel's carving fair.
Amid that dim and smoky light,
Checkering the silvery moonshine bright,
 A bishop by the altar stood,
 A noble lord of Douglas blood,
With mitre sheen and rochet white.
Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye
But little pride of prelacy;
More pleased that in a barbarous age
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doffed his furred gown and sable hood;
O'er his huge form and visage pale
He wore a cap and shirt of mail,
And leaned his large and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore in battle fray
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
 He seemed as, from the tombs around
  Rising at judgment-day,
 Some giant Douglas may be found
  In all his old array;
So pale his face, so huge his limb,
So old his arms, his look so grim.

XII

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;
And think what next he must have felt
At buckling of the falchion belt!
 And judge how Clara changed her hue
While fastening to her lover's side
A friend, which, though in danger tried,
 He once had found untrue!
Then Douglas struck him with his blade:
‘Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,
 I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir!
For king, for church, for lady fair,
 See that thou fight.’
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,
Said: ‘Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,
 Disgrace, and trouble;
For He who honor best bestows
 May give thee double.’
De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must:
‘Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust
 That Douglas is my brother!’
‘Nay, nay,’ old Angus said, ‘not so;
To Surrey's camp thou now must go,
 Thy wrongs no longer smother.
I have two sons in yonder field;
And, if thou meet'st them under shield,
Upon them bravely—do thy worst,
And foul fall him that blenches first!’

XIII

Not far advanced was morning day
When Marmion did his troop array
 To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe-conduct for his band
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
 And Douglas gave a guide.
The ancient earl with stately grace
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered in an undertone,
‘Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.’
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
 ‘Though something I might plain,’ he said,
‘Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
 While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble earl, receive my hand.’—
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:—
‘My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open at my sovereign's will
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone—
The hand of Douglas is his own,
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.’

XIV

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire
And shook his very frame for ire,
 And—‘This to me!’ he said,
‘An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
 To cleave the Douglas' head!
And first I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate;
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
 Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,—
Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,—
 I tell thee, thou 'rt defied!
And if thou saidst I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
 Lord Angus, thou hast lied!’
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth,—‘And darest thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
 The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?—
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho!
 Let the portcullis fall.’—
Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,—
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous grate behind him rung;
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars descending razed his plume.

XV

The steed along the drawbridge flies
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
‘Horse! horse!’ the Douglas cried, ‘and chase!’
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
‘A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.—
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed?
At first in heart it liked me ill
When the king praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line;
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.—
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'T is pity of him too,’ he cried:
‘Bold can he speak and fairly ride,
I warrant him a warrior tried.’
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

XVI

The day in Marmion's journey wore;
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er,
They crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor.
His troop more closely there he scanned,
And missed the Palmer from the band.
‘Palmer or not,’ young Blount did say,
‘He parted at the peep of day;
Good sooth, it was in strange array.’
‘In what array?’ said Marmion quick.
‘My lord, I ill can spell the trick;
But all night long with clink and bang
Close to my couch did hammers clang;
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,
And from a loophole while I peep,
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep,
Wrapped in a gown of sables fair,
As fearful of the morning air;
Beneath, when that was blown aside,
A rusty shirt of mail I spied,
By Archibald won in bloody work
Against the Saracen and Turk:
Last night it hung not in the hall;
I thought some marvel would befall.
And next I saw them saddled lead
Old Cheviot forth, the earl's best steed,
A matchless horse, though something old,
Prompt in his paces, cool and bold.
I heard the Sheriff Sholto say
The earl did mach the Master pray
To use him on the battle-day,
But he preferred’—‘Nay, Henry, cease!
Thou sworn horse—courser, hold thy peace.—
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain—I pray,
What did Blount see at break of day?’—

XVII

‘In brief, my lord, we both descried—
For then I stood by Henry's side—
The Palmer mount and outwards ride
 Upon the earl's own favorite steed.
All sheathed he was in armor bright,
And much resembled that same knight
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight;
 Lord Angus wished him speed.’—
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke:—
‘Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!’
He muttered; ‘'T was nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.
 O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
 My path no more to cross.—
How stand we now?—he told his tale
To Douglas, and with some avail;
 'T was therefore gloomed his rugged brow.—
Will Surrey dare to entertain
'Gainst Marmion charge disproved and vain?
 Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun,
Must separate Constance from the nun—
Oh! what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!
A Palmer too!—no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye;
I might have known there was but one
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.’

XVIII

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed
His troop, and reached at eve the Tweed,
Where Lennel's convent closed their march.
There now is left but one frail arch,
 Yet mourn thou not its cells;
Our time a fair exchange has made:
Hard by, in hospitable shade,
 A reverend pilgrim dwells,
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.—
Yet did Saint Bernard's abbot there
Give Marmion entertainment fair,
And lodging for his train and Clare.
Next morn the baron climbed the tower,
To view afar the Scottish power,
 Encamped on Flodden edge;
The white pavilions made a show
Like remnants of the winter snow
 Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion looked:—at length his eye
Unusual movement might descry
 Amid the shifting lines;
The Scottish host drawn out appears,
For, flashing on the hedge of spears,
 The eastern sunbeam shines.
Their front now deepening, now extending,
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,
Now drawing back, and now descending,
The skilful Marmion well could know
They watched the motions of some foe
Who traversed on the plain below.

XIX

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge
 The Scots beheld the English host
 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,
 And heedful watched them as they crossed
The Till by Twisel Bridge.
 High sight it is and haughty, while
 They dive into the deep defile;
 Beneath the caverned cliff they fall,
 Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
 Troop after troop are disappearing;
 Troop after troop their banners rearing
Upon the eastern bank you see;
Still pouring down the rocky den
 Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,
 In slow succession still,
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,
 To gain the opposing hill.
That morn, to many a trumpet clang,
Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang,
And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room.

XX

And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What cheeks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
 Inactive on his steed,
And sees, between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed's southern strand,
 His host Lord Surrey lead?
What vails the vain knight—errant's brand?—
O Douglas, for thy leading wand!
 Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
Oh! for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight
And cry, ‘Saint Andrew and our right!’
Another sight had seen that morn,
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!—
The precious hour has passed in vain,
And England's host has gained the plain,
Wheeling their march and circling still
Around the base of Flodden hill.

XXI

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
‘Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons come
 Between Tweed's river and the hill,
Foot, horse, and cannon! Hap what hap,
My basnet to a prentice cap,
 Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!—
Yet more! yet more!—how fair arrayed
They file from out the hawthorn shade,
 And sweep so gallant by!
With all their banners bravely spread,
 And all their armor flashing high,
Saint George might waken from the dead,
 To see fair England's standards fly.’—
‘Stint in thy prate,’ quoth Blount, 'thou 'dst best,
And listen to our lord's behest.’—
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,
‘This instant be our band arrayed;
The river must be quickly crossed,
That we may join Lord Surrey's host.
If fight King James,—as well I trust
That fight he will, and fight he must,—
The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall tarry while the battle joins.’

XXII

Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the abbot bade adieu,
Far less would listen to his prayer
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew,
And muttered as the flood they view,
‘The pheasant in the falcon's claw,
He scarce will yield to please a daw;
Lord Angus may the abbot awe,
 So Clare shall bide with me.’
Then on that dangerous ford and deep
Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep,
 He ventured desperately:
And not a moment will he bide
Till squire or groom before him ride;
Hendmost of all be stems the tide,
 And stems it gallantly.
Eustace held Clare upon her horse,
 Old Hubert led her rein,
Stoutly they braved the current's course,
And, though far downward driven perforce,
 The southern bank they gain.
Behind them straggling came to shore,
 As best they might, the train:
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore,
 A caution not in vain;
Deep need that day that every string,
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
 Then forward moved his hand,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a cross of stone,
That on a hillock standing lone
 Did all the field command.

XXIII

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host for deadly fray;
Their marshalled lines stretched east and west,
 And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation passed
 From the loud cannon mouth;
Not in the close successive rattle
That breathes the voice of modern battle,
 But slow and far between.
The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed:
‘Here, by this cross,’ he gently said,
 ‘You well may view the scene.
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:
Oh! think of Marmion in thy prayer!—
Thou wilt not?—well, no less my care
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.—
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,
 With ten picked archers of my train;
With England if the day go hard,
 To Berwick speed amain.—
But if we conquer, cruel maid,
My spoils shall at your feet be laid,
 When here we meet again.’
He waited not for answer there,
And would not mark the maid's despair,
 Nor heed the discontented look
From either squire, but spurred amain,
And, dashing through the battle-plain,
 His way to Surrey took.

XXIV

‘The good Lord Marmion, by my life!
 Welcome to danger's hour!—
Short greeting serves in time of strife.—
 Thus have I ranged my power:
Myself will rule this central host,
 Stout Stanley fronts their right,
My sons command the vaward post,
 With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;
 Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
 Shall be in rearward of the fight,
And succor those that need it most.
 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 further 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.

XXV

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 vast, 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 looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.

XXVI

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 seamew.
Then marked 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 flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, 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.—

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.
'T was 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 bark'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 resened 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 stayed,
As loath 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 armor 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!’

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 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!’

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. Sibyl. 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.

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 labor 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!—
Oh! look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
 Oh! 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.

XXXIII

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where 's now their victor vaward wing,
 Where Huntley, and where Home?—
Oh! for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
 That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
 On Roncesvalles died!
Such blasts might warn them, not in vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain
And turn the doubtful day again,
 While yet on Flodden side
Afar the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils and bleeds and dies
 Our Caledonian pride!
In vain the wish—for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray.—
‘O lady,’ cried the monk, ‘away!’
 And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair
 Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

XXXIV

But as they left the darkening heath
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep
 That fought around their king.
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,
 Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood
 The instant that he fell.
No thought was there of dastard flight;
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
 As fearlessly and well,
Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded king.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands;
 And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves from wasted lands
 Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,
They melted from the field, as snow,
When streams are swoln and southwinds blow,
 Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
 While many a broken band
Disordered through her currents dash,
 To gain the Scottish land;
To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song
Shall many an age that wail prolong;
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear
 Of Flodden's fatal field,
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear
 And broken was her shield!

XXXV

Day dawns upon the mountain's side.—
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one;
The sad survivors all are gone.—
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high
Look northward with upbraiding eye;
 Nor cherish hope in vain
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land
 May yet return again.
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,
 And fell on Flodden plain:
And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clenched within his manly hand,
 Beseemed the monarch slain.
But oh! how changed since yon blithe night!—
Gladly I turn me from the sight
 Unto my tale again.

XXXVI

Short is my tale:—Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle,
A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear.—
Now vainly for its site you look;
'T was levelled when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took,
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoiler had!—
There erst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,
 His hands to heaven upraised;
And all around, on scutcheon rich,
And tablet carved, and fretted niche,
 His arms and feats were blazed.
And yet, though all was carved so fair,
And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer,
The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain
Followed his lord to Flodden plain,—
One of those flowers whom plaintive lay
In Scotland mourns as ‘wede away:’
Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied,
And dragged him to its foot, and died
Close by the noble Marmion's side.
The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain,
And thus their corpses were mista'en;
And thus in the proud baron's tomb
The lowly woodsman took the room.

XXXVII

Less easy task it were to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low.
They dug his grave e'en where he lay,
 But every mark is gone:
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey,
 And broke her font of stone;
But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still.
 Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry;
 And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
 And plait their garlands fair,
Nor dream they sit upon the grave
That holds the bones of Marmion brave.—
When thou shalt find the little hill,
With thy heart commune and be still.
If ever in temptation strong
Thou left'st the right path for the wrong,
If every devious step thus trod
Still led thee further from the road,
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb;
But say, ‘He died a gallant knight,
With sword in hand, for England's right.’

XXXVIII

I do not rhyme to that dull elf
Who cannot image to himself
That all through Flodden's dismal night
Wilton was foremost in the fight,
That when brave Surrey's steed was slain
'T was Wilton mounted him again;
'T was Wilton's brand that deepest hewed
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood:
Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall,
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith made plain,
He won his rank and lands again,
And charged his old paternal shield
With bearings won on Flodden Field.
Nor sing I to that simple maid
To whom it must in terms be said
That king and kinsmen did agree
To bless fair Clara's constancy;
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal's state,—
That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke;
That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
And Katherine's hand the stocking threw;
And afterwards, for many a day,
That it was held enough to say,
In blessing to a wedded pair,
‘Love they like Wilton and like Clare!’