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Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water, from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst !"
O, woman! in our hours of ease,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
To the nigh streamlet ran :
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,
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
A little fountain cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone bason fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say, Brink. wearp. pilgrim, drink. and pray. For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey.
Who. built. this. cross. and. well. She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied
A Monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought, To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave “ Is it the hand of Clare,” he said, “Or injured Constance, bathes my head !"
Then, as remembrance rose, “ Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!
I must redress her woes,
Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !"
“ Alas!" she said, “ the while, O think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She died at Holy Isle.” Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide, In torrents, from his wounded side. “ Then it was truth !"-he said—“I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
Would spare me but a day!
Might bribe him for delay.
may not be !- this dizzy tranceCurse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.”
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to staunch, the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
For that she ever sung,
“ In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying."
So the notes rung ;
“ Avoid thee, Fiend !-- with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O look, my son, upon yon sign
O think on faith and bliss !
By many a death-bed I have been,
But never aught like this.”-
that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And—STANLEY! was the cry; -
And fired his glazing eye:
And shouted “ Victory ! “ Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on!"...
Were the last words of Marmion.