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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519641" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Marmion: Canto 6 (excerpt)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, <br> To view afar the Scottish power,<br> Encamp'd on Flodden edge:<br> The white pavilions made a show,<br> Like remnants of the winter snow,<br> Along the dusky ridge.<br> Long Marmion look'd:--at length his eye<br> Unusual movement might descry<br> Amid the shifting lines:<br> The Scottish host drawn out appears,<br> For, flashing on the hedge of spears<br> The eastern sunbeam shines.<br> Their front now deepening, now extending;<br> Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,<br> Now drawing back, and now descending,<br> The skilful Marmion well could know,<br> They watch'd the motions of some foe,<br> Who traversed on the plain below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Even so it was. From Flodden ridge<br> The Scots beheld the English host<br> Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,<br> And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd<br> The Till by Twisel Bridge.<br> High sight it is, and haughty, while<br> They dive into the deep defile;<br> Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,<br> Beneath the castle's airy wall.<br> By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,<br> Troop after troop are disappearing;<br> Troop after troop their banners rearing,<br> Upon the eastern bank you see.<br> Still pouring down the rocky den,<br> Where flows the sullen Till,<br> And rising from the dim-wood glen,<br> Standards on standards, men on men,<br> In slow succession still,<br> And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,<br> And pressing on, in ceaseless march,<br> To gain the opposing hill.<br> That morn, to many a trumpet clang,<br> Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang;<br> And many a chief of birth and rank,<br> Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.<br> Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see<br> In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,<br> Had then from many an axe its doom,<br> To give the marching columns room.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> And why stands Scotland idly now,<br> Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,<br> Since England gains the pass the while,<br> And struggles through the deep defile?<br> What checks the fiery soul of James?<br> Why sits that champion of the dames<br> Inactive on his steed,<br> And sees, between him and his land,<br> Between him and Tweed's southern strand,<br> His host Lord Surrey lead?<br> What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand?<br> --O, Douglas, for thy leading wand!<br> Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!<br> O for one hour of Wallace wight,<br> Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight,<br> And cry--"Saint Andrew and our right!"<br> Another sight had seen that morn,<br> From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,<br> And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!--<br> The precious hour has pass'd in vain,<br> And England's host has gain'd the plain;<br> Wheeling their march, and circling still,<br> Around the base of Flodden hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,<br> Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,<br> "Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!<br> And see ascending squadrons come<br> Between Tweed's river and the hill,<br> Foot, horse, and cannon:--hap what hap,<br> My basnet to a prentice cap,<br> Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!--<br> Yet more! yet more!--how far array'd<br> They file from out the hawthorn shade,<br> And sweep so gallant by!<br> With all their banners bravely spread,<br> And all their armour flashing high,<br> Saint George might waken from the dead,<br> To see fair England's standards fly."--<br> "Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, "thou'dst best,<br> And listen to our lord's behest."--<br> With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,--<br> "This instant be our band array'd;<br> The river must be quickly cross'd,<br> That we may join Lord Surrey's host.<br> If fight King James,--as well I trust,<br> That fight he will, and fight he must,--<br> The Lady Clare behind our lines<br> Shall tarry, while the battle joins."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Himself he swift on horseback threw,<br> Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu;<br> Far less would listen to his prayer,<br> To leave behind the helpless Clare.<br> Down to the Tweed his band he drew,<br> And mutter'd as the flood they view,<br> "The pheasant in the falcon's claw,<br> He scarce will yield to please a daw:<br> Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,<br> So Clare shall bide with me."<br> Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,<br> Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep,<br> He ventured desperately:<br> And not a moment will he bide,<br> Till squire, or groom, before him ride;<br> Headmost of all he stems the tide,<br> And stems it gallantly.<br> Eustace held Clare upon her horse,<br> Old Hubert led her rein,<br> Stoutly they braved the current's course,<br> And, though far downward driven per force,<br> The southern bank they gain;<br> Behind them straggling, came to shore,<br> As best they might, the train:<br> Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore,<br> A caution not in vain;<br> Deep need that day that every string,<br> By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring.<br> A moment then Lord Marmion staid,<br> And breathed his steed, his men array'd,<br> Then forward moved his band,<br> Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,<br> He halted by a Cross of Stone,<br> That, on a hillock standing lone,<br> Did all the field command.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Hence might they see the full array<br> Of either host, for deadly fray;<br> Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and west,<br> And fronted north and south,<br> And distant salutation pass'd<br> From the loud cannon mouth;<br> Not in the close successive rattle,<br> That breathes the voice of modern battle,<br> But slow and far between.--<br> The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion staid:<br> "Here, by this Cross," he gently said,<br> "You well may view the scene.<br> Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:<br> O! think of Marmion in thy prayer!--<br> Thou wilt not?--well,--no less my care<br> Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.--<br> You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,<br> With ten pick'd archers of my train;<br> With England if the day go hard,<br> To Berwick speed amain.--<br> But if we conquer, cruel maid,<br> My spoils shall at your feet be laid,<br> When here we meet again."<br> He waited not for answer there,<br> And would not mark the maid's despair,<br> Nor heed the discontented look<br> From either squire; but spurr'd amain,<br> And, dashing through the battle-plain,<br> His way to Surrey took.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> "--The good Lord Marmion, by my life!<br> Welcome to danger's hour!--<br> Short greeting serves in time of strife:--<br> Thus have I ranged my power:<br> Myself will rule this central host,<br> Stout Stanley fronts their right,<br> My sons command the vaward post,<br> With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;<br> Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,<br> Shall be in rear-ward of the fight,<br> And succour those that need it most.<br> Now, gallant Marmion, well I know,<br> Would gladly to the vanguard go;<br> Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,<br> With thee their charge will blithely share;<br> There fight thine own retainers too,<br> Beneath De Burg, thy steward true."--<br> "Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said,<br> Nor farther greeting there he paid;<br> But, parting like a thunderbolt,<br> First in the vanguard made a halt,<br> Where such a shout there rose<br> Of "Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry,<br> Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,<br> Startled the Scottish foes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still<br> With Lady Clare upon the hill;<br> On which, (for far the day was spent,)<br> The western sunbeams now were bent.<br> The cry they heard, its meaning knew,<br> Could plain their distant comrades view:<br> Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,<br> "Unworthy office here to stay!<br> No hope of gilded spurs to-day.--<br> But see! look up--on Flodden bent<br> The Scottish foe has fired his tent."<br> And sudden, as he spoke,<br> From the sharp ridges of the hill,<br> All downward to the banks of Till,<br> Was wreathed in sable smoke.<br> Volumed and fast, and rolling far,<br> The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,<br> As down the hill they broke;<br> Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,<br> Announced their march; their tread alone,<br> At times one warning trumpet blown,<br> At times a stifled hum,<br> Told England, from his mountain-throne<br> King James did rushing come.--<br> Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,<br> Until at weapon-point they close.--<br> They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,<br> With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;<br> And such a yell was there,<br> Of sudden and portentous birth,<br> As if men fought upon the earth,<br> And fiends in upper air;<br> O life and death were in the shout,<br> Recoil and rally, charge and rout,<br> And triumph and despair.<br> Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye<br> Could in the darkness nought descry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> At length the freshening western blast<br> Aside the shroud of battle cast;<br> And, first, the ridge of mingled spears<br> Above the brightening cloud appears;<br> And in the smoke the pennons flew,<br> As in the storm the white sea-mew.<br> Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far,<br> The broken billows of the war,<br> And plumed crests of chieftains brave,<br> Floating like foam upon the wave;<br> But nought distinct they see:<br> Wide raged the battle on the plain;<br> Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain;<br> Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;<br> Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again,<br> Wild and disorderly.<br> Amid the scene of tumult, high<br> They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:<br> And stainless Tunstall's banner white,<br> And Edmund Howard's lion bright,<br> Still bear them bravely in the fight;<br> Although against them come,<br> Of Gallant Gordons many a one,<br> And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,<br> And many a rugged Border clan,<br> With Huntley, and with Home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Far on the left, unseen the while,<br> Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;<br> Though there the western mountaineer<br> Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear,<br> And flung the feeble targe aside,<br> And with both hands the broadsword plied.<br> 'Twas vain:--But Fortune, on the right,<br> With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight.<br> Then fell that spotless banner white,<br> The Howard's lion fell;<br> Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew<br> With wavering flight, while fiercer grew<br> Around the battle-yell.<br> The Border slogan rent the sky!<br> A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:<br> Loud were the clanging blows;<br> Advanced,--forced back,--now low, now high,<br> The pennon sunk and rose;<br> As bends the bark's mast in the gale,<br> When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,<br> It waver'd 'mid the foes.<br> No longer Blount the view could bear:<br> "By Heaven, and all its saints! I swear<br> I will not see it lost!<br> Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare<br> May bid your beads, and patter prayer,--<br> I gallop to the host."<br> And to the fray he rode amain,<br> Follow'd by all the archer train.<br> The fiery youth, with desperate charge,<br> Made for a space, an opening large,--<br> The rescued banner rose,--<br> But darkly closed the war around,<br> Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,<br> It sunk among the foes.<br> Then Eustace mounted too:--yet staid,<br> As loath to leave the helpless maid,<br> When, fast as shaft can fly,<br> Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,<br> The loose rein dangling from his head,<br> Housing and saddle bloody red,<br> Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by;<br> And Eustace, maddening at the sight,<br> A look and sign to Clara cast,<br> To mark he would return in haste,<br> Then plunged into the fight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Ask me not what the maiden feels,<br> Left in that dreadful hour alone:<br> Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;<br> Perchance a courage, not her own,<br> Braces her mind to desperate tone.--<br> The scatter'd van of England wheels;--<br> She only said, as loud in air<br> The tumult roar'd, "Is Wilton there?"--<br> They fly, or, madden'd by despair,<br> Fight but to die,--"Is Wilton there?"<br> With that, straight up the hill there rode<br> Two horsemen drench'd with gore,<br> And in their arms, a helpless load,<br> A wounded knight they bore.<br> His hand still strain'd the broken brand;<br> His arms were smear'd with blood and sand:<br> Dragg'd from among the horses' feet,<br> With dinted shield, and helmet beat,<br> The falcon-crest and plumage gone,<br> Can that be haughty Marmion! . . .<br> Young Blount his armour did unlace,<br> And, gazing on his ghastly face,<br> Said--"By Saint George, he's gone!<br> That spear-wound has our master sped,<br> And see the deep cut on his head!<br> Good-night to Marmion."--<br> "Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:<br> He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air,<br> Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:--<br> "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?<br> Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!<br> Redeem my pennon,--charge again!<br> Cry--'Marmion to the rescue!'--Vain!<br> Last of my race, on battle-plain<br> That shout shall ne'er be heard again!--<br> Yet my last thought is England's--fly,<br> To Dacre bear my signet-ring:<br> Tell him his squadrons up to bring.--<br> Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;<br> Tunstall lies dead upon the field,<br> His life-blood stains the spotless shield:<br> Edmund is down:--my life is reft;<br> The Admiral alone is left.<br> Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,--<br> With Chester charge, and Lancashire,<br> Full upon Scotland's central host,<br> Or victory and England's lost.--<br> Must I bid twice?--hence, varlets! fly!<br> Leave Marmion here alone--to die." <br> They parted, and alone he lay;<br> Clare drew her from the sight away,<br> Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,<br> And half he murmur'd,--"Is there none,<br> Of all my halls have nurst,<br> Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring<br> Of blessed water from the spring,<br> To slake my dying thirst!"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> O, Woman! in our hours of ease,<br> Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,<br> And variable as the shade<br> By the light quivering aspen made;<br> When pain and anguish wring the brow,<br> A ministering angel thou!--<br> Scarce were the piteous accents said,<br> When, with the Baron's casque, the maid<br> To the nigh streamlet ran:<br> Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;<br> The plaintive voice alone she hears,<br> Sees but the dying man.<br> She stoop'd her by the runnel's side,<br> But in abhorrence backward drew;<br> For, oozing from the mountain's side,<br> Where raged the war, a dark-red tide<br> Was curdling in the streamlet blue.<br> Where shall she turn!--behold her mark<br> A little fountain cell,<br> Where water, clear as diamond-spark,<br> In a stone basin fell.<br> Above, some half-worn letters say,<br> Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and. pray.<br> For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey.<br> Who. built. this. cross. and. well. <br> She fill'd the helm, and back she hied,<br> And with surprise and joy espied<br> A Monk supporting Marmion's head;<br> A pious man, whom duty brought<br> To dubious verge of battle fought,<br> To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,<br> And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave--<br> "Is it the hand of Clare," he said,<br> "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?"<br> Then, as remembrance rose,--<br> "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!<br> I must redress her woes.<br> Short space, few words, are mine to spare;<br> Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"--<br> "Alas!" she said, "the while,--<br> O, think of your immortal weal!<br> In vain for Constance is your zeal;<br> She--died at Holy Isle."--<br> Lord Marmion started from the ground,<br> As light as if he felt no wound;<br> Though in the action burst the tide,<br> In torrents, from his wounded side.<br> "Then it was truth,"--he said--"I knew<br> That the dark presage must be true.--<br> I would the Fiend, to whom belongs<br> The vengeance due to all her wrongs,<br> Would spare me but a day!<br> For wasting fire, and dying groan,<br> And priests slain on the altar stone,<br> Might bribe him for delay.<br> It may not be!--this dizzy trance--<br> Curse on yon base marauder's lance,<br> And doubly cursed my failing brand!<br> A sinful heart makes feeble hand."<br> Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,<br> Supported by the trembling Monk.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">|XXXII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> With fruitless labour, Clara bound,<br> And strove to staunch the gushing wound:<br> The Monk, with unavailing cares,<br> Exhausted all the Church's prayers.<br> Ever, he said, that, close and near,<br> A lady's voice was in his ear,<br> And that the priest he could not hear;<br> For that she ever sung,<br> " In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,<br> Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying! "<br> So the notes rung;--<br> "Avoid thee, Fiend!--with cruel hand,<br> Shake not the dying sinner's sand!--<br> O, look, my son, upon yon sign<br> Of the Redeemer's grace divine;<br> O, think on faith and bliss!--<br> By many a death-bed I have been,<br> And many a sinner's parting seen,<br> But never aught like this."--<br> The war, that for a space did fail,<br> Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,<br> And--STANLEY! was the cry;--<br> A light on Marmion's visage spread,<br> And fired his glazing eye:<br> With dying hand, above his head,<br> He shook the fragment of his blade,<br> And shouted "Victory!--<br> Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"<br> Were the last words of Marmion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> By this, though deep the evening fell,<br> Still rose the battle's deadly swell,<br> For still the Scots, around their King,<br> Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.<br> Where's now their victor vaward wing,<br> Where Huntley, and where Home?--<br> O, for a blast of that dread horn,<br> On Fontarabian echoes borne,<br> That to King Charles did come,<br> When Rowland brave, and Olivier,<br> And every paladin and peer,<br> On Roncesvalles died!<br> Such blast might warn them, not in vain,<br> To quit the plunder of the slain,<br> And turn the doubtful day again,<br> While yet on Flodden side,<br> Afar, the Royal Standard flies,<br> And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,<br> Our Caledonian pride!<br> In vain the wish--for far away,<br> While spoil and havoc mark their way,<br> Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.--<br> "O, Lady," cried the Monk, "away!"<br> And placed her on her steed,<br> And led her to the chapel fair,<br> Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.<br> There all the night they spent in prayer,<br> And at the dawn of morning, there<br> She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXIV</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But as they left the dark'ning heath,<br> Mor desperate grew the strife of death.<br> The English shafts in volleys hail'd,<br> In headlong charge their horse assail'd;<br> Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep<br> To break the Scottish circle deep,<br> That fought around their King.<br> But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,<br> Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,<br> Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,<br> Unbroken was the ring;<br> The stubborn spear-men still make good<br> Their dark impenetrable wood,<br> Each stepping where his comrade stood,<br> The instant that he fell.<br> No thought was there of dastard flight;<br> Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,<br> Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,<br> As fearlessly and well;<br> Till utter darkness closed her wing<br> O'er their thin host and wounded King.<br> Then skilful Surrey's sage commands<br> Led back from strife his shatter'd bands;<br> And from the charge they drew,<br> As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,<br> Sweep back to ocean blue.<br> Then did their loss his foemen know;<br> Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low,<br> They melted from the field as snow,<br> When streams are swoln and south winds blow,<br> Dissolves in silent dew.<br> Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,<br> While many a broken band,<br> Disorder'd, through her currents dash,<br> To gain the Scottish land;<br> To town and tower, to down and dale,<br> To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,<br> And raise the universal wail.<br> Tradition, legend, tune, and song,<br> Shall many an age that wail prolong:<br> Still from the sire the son shall hear<br> Of the stern strife, and carnage drear,<br> Of Flodden's fatal field,<br> Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,<br> And broken was her shield!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXV</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Day dawns upon the mountain's side:--<br> There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,<br> Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:<br> The sad survivors all are gone.--<br> View not that corpse mistrustfully,<br> Defaced and mangled though it be;<br> Nor to yon Border castle high,<br> Look northward with upbraiding eye;<br> Nor cherish hope in vain,<br> That, journeying far on foreign strand,<br> The Royal Pilgrim to his land<br> May yet return again.<br> He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;<br> Reckless of life, he desperate fought,<br> And fell on Flodden plain:<br> And well in death his trusty brand,<br> Firm clench'd within his manly hand,<br> Beseem'd the monarch slain.<br> But, O! how changed since yon blithe night!--<br> Gladly I turn me from the sight,<br> Unto my tale again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXVI</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Short is my tale:--Fitz-Eustace' care<br> A pierced and mangled body bare<br> To moated Lichfield's lofty pile;<br> And there, beneath the southern aisle,<br> A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,<br> Did long Lord Marmion's image bear,<br> (Now vainly for its sight you look;<br> 'Twas levell'd, when fanatic Brook<br> The fair cathedral storm'd and took;<br> But, thanks to heaven, and good Saint Chad,<br> A guerdon meet the spoiler had!)<br> There erst was martiar Marmion found,<br> His feet upon a couchant hound,<br> His hands to heaven upraised;<br> And all around, on scutcheon rich,<br> And tablet carved, and fretted niche,<br> His arms and feats were blazed.<br> And yet, though all was carved so fair,<br> And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer,<br> The last Lord Marmion lay not there.<br> From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain<br> Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain,--<br> One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay<br> In Scotland mourns as "wede away:"<br> Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied,<br> And dragg'd him to its foot, and died,<br> Close by the noble Marmion's side.<br> The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain,<br> And thus their corpses were mista'en;<br> And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb,<br> The lowly woodsman took the room.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXVII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Less easy task it were, to show<br> Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low.<br> They dug his grave e'en where he lay,<br> But every mark is gone;<br> Time's wasting hand has done away<br> The simple Cross of Sybil Grey,<br> And broke her font of stone:<br> But yet from out the little hill<br> Oozes the slender springlet still.<br> Oft halts the stranger there,<br> For thence may best his curious eye<br> The memorable field descry;<br> And shepherd boys repair<br> To seek the water-flag and rush,<br> And rest them by the hazel bush,<br> And plait their garlands fair;<br> Nor dream they sit upon the grave<br> That holds the bones of Marmion brave--<br> When thou shalt find the little hill,<br> With thy heart commune, and be still.<br> If ever, in temptation strong,<br> Thou left'st the right path for the wrong;<br> If every devious step, thus trod,<br> Still led thee farther from the road;<br> Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom<br> On noble Marmion's lowly tomb;<br> But say, "He died a gallant knight,<br> With sword in hand, for England's right."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXVIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I do not rhyme to that dull elf,<br> Who cannot image to himself,<br> That all through Flodden's dismal night,<br> Wilton was foremost in the fight;<br> That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain,<br> 'Twas Wilton mounted him again;<br> 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd,<br> Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood:<br> Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall,<br> He was the living soul of all;<br> That, after fight, his faith made plain,<br> He won his rank and lands again;<br> And charged his old paternal shield<br> With bearings won on Flodden Field.<br> Nor sing I to that simple maid,<br> To whom it must in terms be said,<br> That King and kinsmen did agree,<br> To bless fair Clara's constancy;<br> Who cannot, unless I relate,<br> Paint to her mind the bridal's state;<br> That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke,<br> More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke:<br> That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,<br> And Catherine's hand the stocking threw;<br> And afterwards, for many a day,<br> That it was held enough to say,<br> In blessing to a wedded pair,<br> "Love they like Wilton and like Clare!"</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519641" data-title="Marmion: Canto 6 (excerpt) de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="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 mov..."></div> </div> </div>
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