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