Flodden lain:

And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clenched within his manly hand,
Beseemed the monarch slain.

But, O! how changed since yon blythe 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;
'Twas 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 priests for Marmion breathed the prayer,
The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain
Followed his lord to Flodden plain,—

killed; a circumstance that testifies the desperation of their resis tance. The Scottish historians record many of the idle reports which passed among the volgar of their day. Home was accused, by the popular voice, not only of failing to support the king, but even of having carried him out of the field, and murdered him. Other reports gave a still more romantic turn to the king's fate, and averred, that James, weary of greatness after the carnage among his nobles, had gone on a pilgrimage to merit absolution for the death of his father, aud the breach of his oath of amity to Henry.

*This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which had been garrisoned on the part of the king, took place in the great civil war. Lord Brook, who, with Sir John Gill, commanded the assailants, was shot with a musket ball through the visor of his helmet. The royalists remarked, that he was killed by a shot fired from St Chad's Cathedral, and upon St Chad's day, and received his deathWound in the very eye with which, he had said, he hoped to see the ruin of all the cathedrals in Eugland.

One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay
In Scotland mourns as "wede away:"
Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied,
And dragged him to its fout, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's side.
The spoilers stripped and gashed the stain,
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 Sybil 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 trode,

Still led thee farther 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, "Twas Wilton mounted him again;

'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed,
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood:
Unnamed by Hollinshed 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 Catherine'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 !"

L'ENVOY.

TO THE READER.

Why then a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,
Who long have listed to my rede ?*-
To Statesmen grave, if such
may deign

To read the Minstrel's idle strain,

Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, And patriotic heart as PITT!

A garland for the hero's crest,

And twined by her he loves the best;

Used generally for tale, or discourse.

M