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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 waver'd 'mid the foes.
No longer Blount the sight 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,
Follow'd by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large, -

The rescued banner rose,
But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine tree rooted from the ground,

It sunk among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too ;

-yet stay'd, 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 rush'd 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.

When, doft'd 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 the 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 rung forth a lowly moan.
And half he murmur'd, -" Is there none,

Of all my halls have ourst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst !"

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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 scatter'd van of England wheels;-

She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roar'd, “ Is Wilton there ?”
They fly, or, madden'd by despair,

Fight but to die,-" Is Wilton there?”
With that, straight up the hill there rode

Two horsemen drench'd with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strain'd the broken brand; His arms were smear'd with blood and sand: Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield, and heimet beat, The falcon crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion S 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!”

0, 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 stoop'd her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountain 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 Grey,

Who built this cross and well.
She fill'd 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 stoop'd 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;

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,

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 va'ward wing,

Where Huntley, and where Home? -O 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 blast might warm 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 Sybil's cross the plunderers stray.“0, 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.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to staunch, 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 on 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


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 swellid 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 S
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on !"-
Were the last words of Marmion.

But as they left the darkening heath,
More desperate grew the strise of death.
The English shafts in volleys haild,
In headlong charge their horse assail'd;
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 bill-men 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 Night;-
Link'd 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 shatter'd bands;

And from the charge they drew,
As mountain waves, from wasted lands,

Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foeman know ;
Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low,
They melted from the field as snow,
When streams are swoln and south winds

Dissolves in silent dew,

The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain,
And thus their corpses were mista'en ;
And thus, in the proud baron's tomb,
The lowly woodsman took the room.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,

While many a broken band,
Disorder'd, through her currents dash,

To gain the Scottish land;
To town and tower, to town 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 shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,

And broken was her shield !

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 clench'd within his manly hand,

Beseem'd the monarch slain.
But, 0 ! how changed since yon blithe night
Gladly I turn me from the sight,

Unto my tale again.

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 bill
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 bazel 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 lead 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.”

Short is my tale :-Fitz-Eustace's 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 levell’d, when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral storm'd 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
Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain,-
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay
In Scotland mourns as “wede away.”
Sore wounded, Sybil's cross he spied,
And dragg'd him to its foot and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's side.

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 hew'd 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 faith 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, pass'd 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!"

O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand

That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray ; O wake once more! though scarce my skill com

mand Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain; Yet, if one heart throb higher at its sway,

The wizard note has not been touch'd in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!

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 statesman grave, if such may deign To read the minstrel's idle strain, Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, And patriotic beart-as Pitt! A garland for the hero's crest, And twined by her he loves the best; To every lovely lady bright, What can I wish but faithful knight? To every faithful lover too, What can I wish but lady true ? And knowledge to the studious sage, And pillow to the head of age. To thee, dear schoolboy, whom my lay HO cheated of thy hour of play, Light task and merry holiday ! To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!

I. The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; But when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Ben voirlich's head, The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay Resounded up the rocky way, And faint, from farther distance borne, Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.






As chief, who hears his warder call,
“ To arms! the foemen storm the wall,”—
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But, e'er bis fleet career he took,
The dewdrops from his flanks he shook ;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'a frontlet to the sky;
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuild the tainted gaie,
A moment listend to the cry,
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

ADVERTISEMENT. The scene of the following poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch-Katrine, in the Western Highlands of Perthshire. The time of action includes six days, and the transactions of each day occupy a canto.


THE CHASE. HARP of the North! that mouldering long bast

hung On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Mufling with verdant ringlet every string,

O minstrel harp, still must thine accents sleep? Did rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep? Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,

Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,

Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. At each according pause was heard aloud

Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd;

For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy Was knighthood's dauntless deed and beauty's

matchless eye.

III. Yell'd on the view the opening pack, Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back; To many a mingled sound at once Th’awaken’d mountain gave response. An hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, Clatter'd a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rung out, An hundred voices join'd the shout: With hark and whoop, and wild halloo, No rest Ben voirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in her covert cower'd the doe, The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint, and more faint, its failing din Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill.

IV. Less loud the sounds of sylvan war Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var,

• Used generally for tale, or discourse.

And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told
A giant made his den of old :
For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,
And many a gallant, stay'd perforce,
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse ;
And of the trackers of a deer
Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
So shrewdly, on the mountain side,
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

V. The poble stag was pausing now, Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, Tho varied realms of fair Menteith. With anxious eye he wander'd o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And ponder'd refuge from his toil, By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. But nearer was the copse-wood gray, That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, And mingled with the pine trees blue On the bold cliffs of Ben-venue. Fresh vigour with the hope return'd, With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, Held westward with unwearied race, And left behind the panting chase.

VI. "Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambus-more ; What reins were tightend in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flaggd upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith, For twice, that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swum stoutly o’er. Few were the stragglers, following far, That reach'd the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone.

Already glorying in the prize,
Measures his antlers with his eyes ;
For the death-wound, and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;
But thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock,
And turn'd him from the opposing rock;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen,
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken,
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook
His solitary refuge took,
There while, close couch'd, the thicket shed
Cold dews and wild flowers on his bead,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain,
Chiding the rocks that yell’d again.

Close on the hounds the hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanish'd game;
But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
The gallant horse exhausted fell.
Th’impatient rider strove in vain
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
For the good steed, his labours o'er,
Stretch'd his stiff limbs to rise no more.
Then touch'd with pity and remorse,
He sorrow'd o’er the expiring horse:
“I little thought, when first thy rein
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On thy feet limbs, my matchless steed;
Wo worth the chase, wo worth the day,
That costs thy life, my gallant gray !”

Then through the dell his horn resounds,
From vain pursuit to call the hounds.
Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace,
The sulky leaders of the chase ;
Close to their master's side they press'd,
With drooping tail and humbled crest;
But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note.
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream,
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast;
And on the hunter hied bis way,
To join some comrades of the day;
Yet often paused, so strange the road,
So wondrous were the scenes it show'd.

Alone, but with unbated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
For jaded now, and spent with toil,
Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring stag strain'd full in view.
Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,
Fast on his flying traces came,
And all but won that desperate game;
For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,
Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds staunch;
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry strain.
Thus up the the margin of the lake,
Between the precipice and brake,
O’er stock and rock their race they take.

The hunter mark'd that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way,

XI. The western waves of ebbing day Rolld o'er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each finty 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-splinter'd pinnacle ; Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass,

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