And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, Since England gains the pa.s.s the while, 600 And struggles through the deep defile?

What checks the fiery soul of James?

Why sits that champion of the dames Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, 605 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! 610 O for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skill'd 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, 615 And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!-- The precious hour has pa.s.s'd in vain, And England's host has gain'd the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden hill. 620

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, 625 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 far array'd They file from out the hawthorn shade, 630 And sweep so gallant by!

With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armour flashing high, Saint George might waken from the dead, To see fair England's standards fly.'-- 635 '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, 640 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.' 645

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, 650 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.' 655 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; 660 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, 665 And, though far downward driven per force, The southern bank they gain; Behind them, straggling, came to sh.o.r.e, As best they might, the train: Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 670 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, 675 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. 680

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 pa.s.s'd 685 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: 690 '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 695 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.-- 700 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, 705 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! 710 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, 715 My sons command the vaward post, With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his hors.e.m.e.n light, Shall be in rear-ward of the fight, And succour those that need it most. 720 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, 725 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.'-- 'Thanks, n.o.ble Surrey!' Marmion said, Nor farther greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt, 730 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 735 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: 740 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.' 745 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, 750 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, 755 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.-- 760 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, 765 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 770 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; 775 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, 780 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; 785 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, 790 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, 795 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 800 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. 805 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. 810 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; 815 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 820 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, 825 Follow'd by all the archer train.

The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a s.p.a.ce, an opening large,-- The rescued banner rose,-- But darkly closed the war around, 830 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, 835 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle b.l.o.o.d.y red, Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840 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: 845 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 850 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 hors.e.m.e.n drench'd with gore, 855 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, 860 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, 865 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: 870 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! 875 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, 880 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: 885 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, 890 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, 895 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, 900 To slake my dying thirst!'

x.x.x.

O, Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; 905 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: 910 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; 915 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, 920 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 .

925 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 930 To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.

x.x.xI.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave-- 'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 935 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?'

Then, as remembrance rose,-- 'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!

I must redress her woes.