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
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

O think on faith and bliss!

By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry ;-

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
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.

XXXIII.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,

For still the Scots, around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.

Where's now their victor vaward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home ?—

O for a blast of that dread horn,

On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come,

When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain,

To quit the plunder of the slain,

And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side,

Afar, the Royal Standard flies,

And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,

Our Caledonian pride!

In vain the wish-for far away,

While spoil and havoc mark their way,

And placed her on her steed,

And led her to the chapel fair,

Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.

There all the night they spent in prayer,
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 hail'd,

In headlong charge their horse assail'd;
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;

The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood,

The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;
Link'd 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 shatter'd bands;
And from the charge they drew,

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,

Disorder'd, 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,

Shall

many an age

that wail prolong:

Still from the sire the son shall hear

Of the stern strife, and carnage drear,

Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,

And broken was her shield!

Day dawns

XXXV.

upon the mountain's side:

There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one,

The sad survivors all are gone.