Marmion

by Walter Scott

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 array’d;

  The river must be quickly cross’d,

  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 mutter’d 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;

  Headmost of all he 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 per force,

  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 unharm’d, should sharply ring.

  A moment then Lord Marmion staid,

  And breathed his steed, his men array’d,

  Then forward moved his band,

  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 marshall’d lines stretch’d east and west,

  And fronted north and south,

  And distant salutation pass’d

  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 gain’d, Lord Marmion staid:

  ‘Here, by this Cross,’ he gently said,

  ‘You well may view the scene.

  Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:

  O! 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 pick’d 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 spurr’d 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 rear-ward of the fight,

  And succour 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 farther 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 fast, 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 look’d 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 sea-mew.

  Then mark’d 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 flash’d amain;

  Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;

  Crests rose, and stoop’d, 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

  Rush’d with bare bosom on the spear,

  And flung the feeble targe aside,

  And with both hands the broadsword plied.

  ‘Twas vain:-But Fortune, on the right,

  With fickle smile, cheer’d 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 waver’d ‘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,

  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 sank among the foes.

  Then Eustace mounted too:-yet staid,

  As loath to leave the helpless maid,

  When, fast as shaft can fly,

  Blood-shot 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.

  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 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 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!’

  XXIX.

  When, doff’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 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 murmur’d,-‘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 stoop’d 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 .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 shrieve 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.

  XXXII.

  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.’-

  The war, that for a space did fail,

  Now trebly thundering swell’d 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.