178
MARMION.
Edmund is down;—my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,—
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
890 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;
895 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
900Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!'
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,—
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
890 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;
895 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
900Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!'
XXX.
O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
905By 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
910 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,
915 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
920 A little fountain cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.
O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
905By 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
910 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,
915 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
920 A little fountain cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.
