--
The scattered van of England wheels;--
She only said, as loud in air;
The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"
They fly, or, maddened by despair,
Fight but to die,--"Is Wilton there?"
With that, straight up the hill there rode;
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged 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 armor 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!"
When, doffed 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.
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