Marmion: Canto 6

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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 eyeUnusual 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 The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watch'd them as they cross'dThe 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 seeIn spring-tide bloom so lavishly,Had then from many an axe its doom,To give the marching columns room.

XXDark 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.

XXIFitz-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'dThey 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 linesShall tarry, while the battle joins."

XXIIScarce 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.

XXIIIOf 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 careShall, 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 lookFrom either squire; but spurr'd amain,And, dashing through the battle-plain, His way to Surrey took.

XXIV 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 roseOf "Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry,Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes.

XXVWith 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 bentThe 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 eyeCould in the darkness nought descry.

XXVIAside the shroud of battle cast;And, first, the ridge of mingled spearsAbove 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, highThey 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.

XXVIIStanley broke Lennox and Argyle;Though there the western mountaineerRush'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 flewWith 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 ClareMay 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 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!"

XXIXAround '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-plainThat 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 bringOf blessed water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst!"

XXXUncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy 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 broughtTo dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.

XXXIAnd, 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 knewThat the dark presage must be true.--I would the Fiend, to whom belongsThe 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.

XXXIIAnd 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 signOf 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.

XXXIIIStill 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, thereShe met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

XXXIVMor 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 sweepTo 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 goodTheir 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 wingO'er their thin host and wounded King.Then skilful Surrey's sage commandsLed 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 hearOf the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden's fatal field,Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield!

XXXVThere, 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.

XXXVIA pierced and mangled body bareTo 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 BrookThe 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 swainFollow'd his lord to Flodden plain,--One of those flowers, whom plaintive layIn 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.

XXXVIILord 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 awayThe simple Cross of Sybil Grey, And broke her font of stone:But yet from out the little hillOozes the slender springlet still. Oft halts the stranger there,For thence may best his curious eyeThe memorable field descry; And shepherd boys repairTo seek the water-flag and rush,And rest them by the hazel bush, And plait their garlands fair;Nor dream they sit upon the graveThat 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 doomOn noble Marmion's lowly tomb;But say, "He died a gallant knight,With sword in hand, for England's right."

XXXVIIIWho 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 shieldWith 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!"

© Sir Walter Scott