Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied, XXXVII. Less easy task it were, to show Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. They dug his grave e'en where he lay, But every mark is gone; Time's wasting hand has done away And broke her font of stone: Oft halts the stranger there, And shepherd boys repair To seek the water-flag and rush, And plait their garlands fair ; Nor dream they sit upon the grave, That holds the bones of Marmion brave.— When thou shalt find the little hill, With thy heart commune, and be still. If ever, in temptation strong, Thou left'st the right path for the wrong; If every devious step, thus trod, Still led thee farther from the road; But say, "He died a gallant knight, XXXVIII. I do not rhyme to that dull elf, That, all through Flodden's dismal night, That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, That, after fight, his faith made plain, Paint to her mind the bridal's state; 255 And afterwards, for many a day, In blessing to a wedded pair, "Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" L'Enboy. TO THE READER. WHY then a final note prolong, A garland for the hero's crest, To every lovely lady bright, What can I wish but faithful knight? What can I wish but lady true? And knowledge to the studious sage; And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light? |