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Next morn the
Baron climb'd the tower,
To view afar the Scottish
power,
Encamp'd on Flodden edge:
The white
pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter
snow,
Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion look'd:--at
length his eye
Unusual movement might descry
Amid
the shifting lines:
The Scottish host drawn out
appears,
For, flashing on the hedge of spears
The
eastern sunbeam shines.
Their front now deepening,
now extending;
Their flank inclining, wheeling,
bending,
Now drawing back, and now descending,
The
skilful Marmion well could know,
They watch'd the
motions of some foe,
Who traversed on the plain
below.
XIX
Even so it was. From
Flodden ridge
The Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,
And heedful
watch'd them as they cross'd
The Till by Twisel
Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They
dive into the deep defile;
Beneath the cavern'd cliff
they fall,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By
rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
Troop after troop are
disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners
rearing,
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still
pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen
Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards
on standards, men on men,
In slow succession still,
And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on,
in ceaseless march,
To gain the opposing hill.
That morn, to many a trumpet clang,
Twisel! thy
rock's deep echo rang;
And many a chief of birth and
rank,
Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.
Thy
hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom
so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room.
XX
And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on
thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the
while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What
checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that
champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,
And
sees, between him and his land,
Between him and
Tweed's southern strand,
His host Lord Surrey lead?
What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand?
--O,
Douglas, for thy leading wand!
Fierce Randolph, for
thy speed!
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or
well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight,
And
cry--"Saint Andrew and our right!"
Another sight had
seen that morn,
From Fate's dark book a leaf been
torn,
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!--
The
precious hour has pass'd in vain,
And England's host
has gain'd the plain;
Wheeling their march, and
circling still,
Around the base of Flodden hill.
XXI
Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
"Hark! hark! my
lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons
come
Between Tweed's river and the hill,
Foot,
horse, and cannon:--hap what hap,
My basnet to a
prentice cap,
Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!--
Yet
more! yet more!--how far array'd
They file from out
the hawthorn shade,
And sweep so gallant by!
With
all their banners bravely spread,
And all their
armour flashing high,
Saint George might waken from
the dead,
To see fair England's standards fly."--
"Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, "thou'dst best,
And listen to our lord's behest."--
With kindling
brow Lord Marmion said,--
"This instant be our band
array'd;
The river must be quickly cross'd,
That
we may join Lord Surrey's host.
If fight King
James,--as well I trust,
That fight he will, and
fight he must,--
The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall tarry, while the battle joins."
XXII
Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce
to the Abbot bade adieu;
Far less would listen to his
prayer,
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down
to the Tweed his band he drew,
And mutter'd as the
flood they view,
"The pheasant in the falcon's claw,
He scarce will yield to please a daw:
Lord Angus may
the Abbot awe,
So Clare shall bide with me."
Then
on that dangerous ford, and deep,
Where to the Tweed
Leat's eddies creep,
He ventured desperately:
And
not a moment will he bide,
Till squire, or groom,
before him ride;
Headmost of all he stems the tide,
And stems it gallantly.
Eustace held Clare upon her
horse,
Old Hubert led her rein,
Stoutly they
braved the current's course,
And, though far downward
driven per force,
The southern bank they gain;
Behind them straggling, came to shore,
As best they
might, the train:
Each o'er his head his yew-bow
bore,
A caution not in vain;
Deep need that day
that every string,
By wet unharm'd, should sharply
ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion staid,
And
breathed his steed, his men array'd,
Then forward
moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a Cross of Stone,
That, on a hillock
standing lone,
Did all the field command.
XXIII
Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray;
Their marshall'd
lines stretch'd east and west,
And fronted north and
south,
And distant salutation pass'd
From the loud
cannon mouth;
Not in the close successive rattle,
That breathes the voice of modern battle,
But slow
and far between.--
The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion
staid:
"Here, by this Cross," he gently said,
"You
well may view the scene.
Here shalt thou tarry,
lovely Clare:
O! think of Marmion in thy prayer!--
Thou wilt not?--well,--no less my care
Shall,
watchful, for thy weal prepare.--
You, Blount and
Eustace, are her guard,
With ten pick'd archers of my
train;
With England if the day go hard,
To Berwick
speed amain.--
But if we conquer, cruel maid,
My
spoils shall at your feet be laid,
When here we meet
again."
He waited not for answer there,
And would
not mark the maid's despair,
Nor heed the
discontented look
From either squire; but spurr'd
amain,
And, dashing through the battle-plain,
His
way to Surrey took.
XXIV
"--The good
Lord Marmion, by my life!
Welcome to danger's hour!--
Short greeting serves in time of strife:--
Thus have
I ranged my power:
Myself will rule this central
host,
Stout Stanley fronts their right,
My sons
command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall,
stainless knight;
Lord Dacre, with his horsemen
light,
Shall be in rear-ward of the fight,
And
succour those that need it most.
Now, gallant Marmion,
well I know,
Would gladly to the vanguard go;
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,
With thee their
charge will blithely share;
There fight thine own
retainers too,
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true."--
"Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said,
Nor farther
greeting there he paid;
But, parting like a
thunderbolt,
First in the vanguard made a halt,
Where such a shout there rose
Of "Marmion! Marmion!"
that the cry,
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.
XXV
Blount
and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon
the hill;
On which, (for far the day was spent,)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they
heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant
comrades view:
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
"Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded
spurs to-day.--
But see! look up--on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And sudden, as
he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All
downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable
smoke.
Volumed and fast, and rolling far,
The
cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they
broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times
one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did
rushing come.--
Scarce could they hear, or see their
foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.--
They
close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway,
and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon
the earth,
And fiends in upper air;
O life and
death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and
rout,
And triumph and despair.
Long look'd the
anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness
nought descry.
XXVI
At length the
freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle
cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke
the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far,
The broken
billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains
brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But
nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on
the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose,
and stoop'd, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord
Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner
white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear
them bravely in the fight;
Although against them
come,
Of Gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a
stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntley, and with Home.
XXVII
Far
on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox
and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the
feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the
broadsword plied.
'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 sunk 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."--
"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
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
staunch 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!"
Were the last words of Marmion.
XXXIII
By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the
Scots, around their King,
Unbroken, fought in
desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home?--
O, for a blast of
that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That
to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and
Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On
Roncesvalles died!
Such blast might warn them, not in
vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn
the doubtful day again,
While yet on Flodden side,
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils,
and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!
In
vain the wish--for far away,
While spoil and havoc
mark their way,
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers
stray.--
"O, Lady," cried the Monk, "away!"
And
placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel
fair,
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night
they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning,
there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
XXXIV
But as they left the dark'ning
heath,
Mor desperate grew the strife of death.
The
English shafts in volleys hail'd,
In headlong charge
their horse assail'd;
Front, flank, and rear, the
squadrons sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep,
That fought around their King.
But yet, though thick
the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like
whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spear-men still
make good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each
stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he
fell.
No thought was there of dastard flight;
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought
like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and
well;
Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er
their thin host and wounded King.
Then skilful
Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his
shatter'd bands;
And from the charge they drew,
As
mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to
ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low,
They
melted from the field as snow,
When streams are swoln
and south winds blow,
Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many
a broken band,
Disorder'd, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land;
To town and tower, to down
and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And
raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune,
and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern
strife, and carnage drear,
Of Flodden's fatal field,
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken
was her shield!
XXXV
Day dawns
upon the mountain's side:--
There, Scotland! lay thy
bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a
one:
The sad survivors all are gone.--
View not
that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though
it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high,
Look
northward with upbraiding eye;
Nor cherish hope in
vain,
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The
Royal Pilgrim to his land
May yet return again.
He
saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life,
he desperate fought,
And fell on Flodden plain:
And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clench'd
within his manly hand,
Beseem'd the monarch slain.
But, O! how changed since yon blithe night!--
Gladly
I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.
XXXVI
Short is my tale:--Fitz-Eustace'
care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated
Lichfield's lofty pile;
And there, beneath the
southern aisle,
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear,
(Now vainly for
its sight you look;
'Twas levell'd, when fanatic
Brook
The fair cathedral storm'd and took;
But,
thanks to heaven, and good Saint Chad,
A guerdon meet
the spoiler had!)
There erst was martiar Marmion
found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,
His hands
to heaven upraised;
And all around, on scutcheon
rich,
And tablet carved, and fretted niche,
His
arms and feats were blazed.
And yet, though all was
carved so fair,
And priest for Marmion breathed the
prayer,
The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From
Ettrick woods, a peasant swain
Follow'd his lord to
Flodden plain,--
One of those flowers, whom plaintive
lay
In Scotland mourns as "wede away:"
Sore
wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied,
And dragg'd him to
its foot, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's
side.
The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain,
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!"
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