Marmion

‘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.’-