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Clare drew her from the sight away,
Of all my halls have nurst, .
To slake my dying thirst !"-.
To the nigh streamlet ran :
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,
In a stone bason fell.
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.
XXXI. 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,
She died at Holy Isle.”
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.
XXXII. With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to staunch, the gushing wound: The Monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear,
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; —
O think on faith and bliss !-
But never aught like this.”—
And-STANLEY! was the cry ;-
And fired his glazing eye: .. With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted “ Victory!“ Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!”..... Were the last words of Marmion. ..