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,1
It sunk among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too:-yet staid,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,
Bloodshot 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,2 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;

"Like pine uprooted from the ground."

- And cried he would return in haste.

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 . . .1
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,2 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,1
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,2
Or victory and England's lost.-

Must I bid twice? hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone

They parted, and alone he lay;

to die."

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!"

1 MS. "Yet my last thought's for England — hie, To Dacre give my signet-ring. Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey fly.'

2 MS.

"Full on King James' central host.”

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.1

She stoop'd her by the runnel's side,2

1 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.

2 MS." She stoop'd her by the runnel's tide,
But in abhorrence soon withdrew,
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."

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. prag.
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!