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“ 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."-
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
Might bribe him for delay.
For that she ever sung, “ In the lost battle, borne down by the Aying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!".
So the potes rung;
“ Avoid thee, Fiend !-with cruel hand,
O think on faith and bliss -
But never aught like this.”—
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.
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, i
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, Near Sybil’s Cross the plunderers stray.“ O Lady," cried the Monk, “ away!"
And placed her on her steed;
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
XXXV. 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.
Unbroken was the ring ;