"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 sous 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.”—3 "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:

1 MS." Nor mark'd the lady's deep despair, Nor heeded discontented look."

See Appendix, Note 4 R.

3 MS.-"Beneath thy seneschal, Fitz-Hugh."

4 "Of all the poetical battles which have been fought. from

the days of Homer to those of Mr. Southey, there is none, in

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;6

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,

our opinion, at all comparable, for interest and animation,— for breadth of drawing and magnificence of effect,-with this of Mr. Scott's."-JEFFREY.

5 This couplet is not in the MS.

6 The next three lines are not in the MS.

7 MS." And first the broken ridge of spears."

Still bear them bravely in the fight:
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,1
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntly, 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,3

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 Clare1
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 ;-7
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! . . .8
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, 10
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:

1 In all former editions, Highlandman. Badenoch is the correction of the Author's interleaved copy of the edition of 18.

* MS.-" Though there the dauntless mountaineer."
MS.-"Fell stainless Tunstall's banner white,
Sir Edmund's lion fell."

4 MS." Fitz-Eustace, you and Lady Clare
May for its safety join in prayer."

S." Like pine up-rooted from the ground."

6 MS." And cried he would return in haste." 7 MS.-" Repulsed, the bandThe scatter'd wing

of England wheels."

8 MS.-"Can that be{pravd} Lord Marmion!"

9 MS." And when he felt the fresher air."

10 MS." Yet my last thought's for England- hic, To Dacre give my signet-ring. Fitz Eustace, to Lord Surrey,/<g>"

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,1
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,3
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,

Brink. weary. pilg:im. 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:

1 MS.-" Full on King James' central host." 2"The hero of the piece, Marmion, who has been guilty of seducing a nun, and abandoning her to be buried alive, of forgery to ruin a friend, and of perfidy in endeavouring to seduce away from him the object of his tenderest affections, fights and dies gloriously, and is indebted to the injured Clara for the last drop of water to cool his dying thirst. This last act of disinterested attention extorts from the author the smoothest, sweetest, and tenderest lines in the whole poem. It is with pleasure that we extract numbers so harmonious from the discords by which they are surrounded."-Critical Review.

8 MS." She stoop'd her by the runnel's tide,

But in abhorrence soon withdrew,

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,

For, oozing from the mountains wide
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn? behold, she marks
A little vaulted cell,

Whose water, clear as diamond sparks,
In a rude basin fell.

Above, some half worn letters say,
Drink, passing pilgrim, drink, and pray."
4 MS.-"Fire, sacrilege, and dying groan,
And priests gorged on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay,
And all by whom the deed was done,
Should with myself become his own,
It may not be"-

"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 sign1
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: 3
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.3

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 Huntly, 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 havock 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,5
More 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 made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood,

The instant that he fell.

6

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;

1 MS.-"O look, my son, upon this cross,
O, think upon the grace divine,
On saints and heavenly bliss!-
By many a sinner's bed I've been,

And many a dismal parting seen,
But never aught like this."

MS." And sparkled in his eye."

3 The Lady of the Lake has nothing so good as the death of

Marmion.-MACKINTOSH,

4 MS." In vain the wish-for far they stray, And spoil and havoc mark'd their way. 'O, Lady,' cried the Monk, 'away!"

5 MS." But still upon the darkening heath." MS.-"Ever the stubborn spears made good Their dark impenetrable wood;

Each Scot stepp'd where his comrade stood,

The instant that he fell,
Till the last ray of parting light,
Then ceased perforce the dreadful fight,

And sunk the battle's yell.

The skilful Surrey's sage commands

Drew from the strife his shatter'd bands.

Their loss his foeman knew;

Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low,

They melted from the field as snow,

When streams are swoln and south winds blow,
Melts from the mountain blue.

By various march their scatter'd bands,
Disorder'd, gain'd the Scottish lands.-
Day dawns on Flodden's dreary side,
And show'd the scene of carnage wide;
There, Scotland, lay thy bravest pride!"

To town and tower, to town 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.3

But, O! how changed since yon blithe night!-
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.

"The powerful poetry of these passages can receive no dlustration from any praises or observations of ours. It is superior, in our apprehension, to all that this author has hitherto produced; and, with a few faults of diction, equal to any thing that has ever been written upon similar subjects. From the moment the author gets in sight of Flodden field, indeed, to the end of the poem, there is no tame writing, and no intervention of ordinary passages. He does not once flag or grow tedious; and neither stops to describe dresses and ceremonies, nor to commemorate the harsh names of feudal barons from the Border. There is a flight of five or six hundred lines, in short, in which he never stoops his wing, nor wavers in his course; but carries the reader forward with a more rapid, sustained, and lofty movement, than any epic bard that we can at present remember."-JEFFREY.

There erst was martial 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;

"Day glimmers on the dying and the dead,
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head," &c.
BYRON'S Lara,

3 See Appendix, Note 4 S. 4 Ibid, Note 4 T. 4"A corpse is afterwards conveyed, as that of Marmion, to the Cathedral of Lichfield, where a magnificent tomb is erected to his memory, and masses are instituted for the repose of his soul; but, by an admirably-imagined act of poetical justice, we are informed that a peasant's body was placed beneath that costly monument, while the haughty Baron himself was buried like a vulgar corpse, on the spot on which he died."—Mon. Rev. 5 MS." They dug his bed e'en where he lay." 6 MS." But yet where swells the little hill."

7 MS." If thou should'st find this little tomb, Beware to speak a hasty doom."