Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.--- And placed her on her steed; And led her to the chapel fair, Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. And, at the dawn of morning, there She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. XXXIV. But as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in vollies hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep, To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight;— Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low, They melted from the field as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disordered, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song, Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield! XXXVI. Day dawns upon the mountain's side:- The sad survivors all are gone.- Nor to yon Border castle high Look northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain, That, journeying far on foreign strand, The Royal Pilgrim to his land May yet return again. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; Reckless of life, he desperate fought, And fell on Flodden plain: And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clenched within his manly hand, Beseemed the monarch slain. But, O! how changed since yon blithe night!— Gladly I turn me from the sight, Short is my tale:-Fitz-Eustace' care A pierced and mangled body bare And there, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. (Now vainly for its site you look; "Twas levelled, when fanatic Brook The fair cathedral stormed and took; But, thanks to Heaven, and good Saint Chad, A guerdon meet the spoiler had!) There erst was martial Marmion found, His feet upon a couchant hound, His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priests for Marmion breathed the prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain Followed his Lord to Flodder plain,— One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay "wede away :" In Scotland mourns as |