CANTO VI.
177
The scatter'd van of England wheels;—
850 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
855 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:
860Dragg'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,
865And 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.'—
870'Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace!'
850 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
855 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:
860Dragg'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,
865And 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.'—
870'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?
875Linger 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!—
880Yet 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,
885 His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:—
'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
875Linger 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!—
880Yet 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,
885 His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
