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;
Clara 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 basin fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say,
Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and. pray.
For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Greg.
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
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 ;
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.
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!'
"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.
The trumpet's voice hath roused the land,
Light up the beacon pyre !
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.
A hundred banners on the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast-
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?—
A king to war went past.
The chief is arming in the hall,
The peasant by his hearth,
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.
The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye—
They come not back, tho' all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;
E'en for the marriage altar crowned
The lover quits his bride;
And all this haste, and change, and fear
By earthly clarion spread!
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?
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