Marmion

‘The breast-plate pierced!-Ay, much I fear, 
Weak fence wert thou ‘gainst foeman’s spear, 
That hath made fatal entrance here, 
  As these dark blood-gouts say.- 
Thus Wilton!-Oh! not corslet’s ward, 
Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, 
Could be thy manly bosom’s guard,    
  On yon disastrous day!’- 

She raised her eyes in mournful mood,- 
WILTON himself before her stood! 
It might have seem’d his passing ghost, 
For every youthful grace was lost;       

And joy unwonted, and surprise, 
Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.- 
Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
That I can tell such scene in words:

What skilful limner e’er would choose 
To paint the rainbow’s varying hues, 
Unless to mortal it were given 
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?

Far less can my weak line declare 
  Each changing passion’s shade;   
Brightening to rapture from despair, 
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, 
And joy, with her angelic air, 
And hope, that paints the future fair, 
  Their varying hues display’d:         

Each o’er its rival’s ground extending, 
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, 
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, 
And mighty Love retains the field, 
Shortly I tell what then he said,     
By many a tender word delay’d, 
And modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
And question kind, and fond reply:-

VI.

De Wilton’s History.

‘Forget we that disastrous day, 
When senseless in the lists I lay. 
  Thence dragg’d,-but how I cannot know, 
    For sense and recollection fled, 
  I found me on a pallet low, 
    Within my ancient beadsman’s shed.

Austin,-remember’st thou, my Clare, 
How thou didst blush, when the old man, 
When first our infant love began, 
  Said we would make a matchless pair?-

Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled 
From the degraded traitor’s bed,-       
He only held my burning head, 
And tended me for many a day, 
While wounds and fever held their sway.

But far more needful was his care, 
When sense return’d to wake despair; 
  For I did tear the closing wound, 
  And dash me frantic on the ground, 
If e’er I heard the name of Clare.

At length, to calmer reason brought, 
Much by his kind attendance wrought, 
  With him I left my native strand, 
And, in a Palmer’s weeds array’d 
My hated name and form to shade, 
  I journey’d many a land; 
No more a lord of rank and birth,  
But mingled with the dregs of earth.

  Oft Austin for my reason fear’d, 
When I would sit, and deeply brood 
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, 
  Or wild mad schemes uprear’d.