Marmion

And thus their corpses were mista’en; 
And thus, in the proud Baron’s tomb, 
The lowly woodsman took the room.

XXXVII.

Less easy task it were, to show 
Lord Marmion’s nameless grave, and low.

  They dug his grave e’en where he lay, 
    But every mark is gone; 
  Time’s wasting hand has done away 
  The simple Cross of Sybil Grey, 
    And broke her font of stone: 

But yet from out the little hill 
Oozes the slender springlet still, 
Oft halts the stranger there, 
For thence may best his curious eye 
The memorable field descry;           
  And shepherd boys repair 
To seek the water-flag and rush, 
And rest them by the hazel bush, 
  And plait their garlands fair;

Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 
That holds the bones of Marmion brave.- 
When thou shalt find the little hill, 
With thy heart commune, and be still.

If ever, in temptation strong, 
Thou left’st the right path for the wrong; 
If every devious step, thus trod, 
Still led thee farther from the road;

Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
On noble Marmion’s lowly tomb; 
But say, ‘He died a gallant knight, 
With sword in hand, for England’s right.’

XXXVIII.

I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 

Who cannot image to himself, 

That all through Flodden’s dismal night, 

Wilton was foremost in the fight;         

That, when brave Surrey’s steed was slain, 

‘Twas Wilton mounted him again; 

‘Twas Wilton’s brand that deepest hew’d, 

Amid the spearmen’s stubborn wood: 

Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall,          

He was the living soul of all;

That, after fight, his faith made plain, 

He won his rank and lands again; 

And charged his old paternal shield 

With bearings won on Flodden Field. 

Nor sing I to that simple maid, 

To whom it must in terms be said, 

That King and kinsmen did agree, 

To bless fair Clara’s constancy;

Who cannot, unless I relate,         

Paint to her mind the bridal’s state; 

That Wolsey’s voice the blessing spoke, 

More, Sands, and Denny, pass’d the joke:

That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 

And Catherine’s hand the stocking threw; 

And afterwards, for many a day, 

That it was held enough to say, 

In blessing to a wedded pair, 

‘Love they like Wilton and like Clare!’

L’Envoy.

TO THE READER. 

Why then a final note prolong, 

Or lengthen out a closing song,