Marmion

  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!’