This page contains affiliate links. As Amazon Associates we earn from qualifying purchases.
  • 1808
Buy it on Amazon FREE Audible 30 days

It rose from the infernal shade,
Or featly was some juggle played,
A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest.


“Now here, within Tantallon Hold,
To Douglas late my tale I told,
To whom my house was known of old.
Won by my proofs, his falchion bright This eve anew shall dub me knight.
These were the arms that once did turn The tide of fight on Otterburne,
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,
When the dead Douglas won the field. These Angus gave–his armourer’s care,
Ere morn, shall every breach repair; For naught, he said, was in his halls,
But ancient armour on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and grey-haired men; The rest were all in Twisel Glen.
And now I watch my armour here,
By law of arms, till midnight’s near; Then, once again a belted knight,
Seek Surrey’s camp with dawn of light.


“There soon again we meet, my Clare!
This baron means to guide thee there; Douglas reveres his king’s command,
Else would he take thee from his band And there thy kinsman Surrey, too,
Will give De Wilton justice due.
Now meeter far for martial broil,
Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, Once more”–“O Wilton! must we then
Risk new-found happiness again,
Trust fate of arms once more?
And is there not an humble glen,
Where we, content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade, A shepherd thou, and I to aid
Thy task on dale and moor? –
That reddening brow!–too well I know, Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,
While falsehood stains thy name:
Go, then, to fight! Clare bids thee go! Clare can a warrior’s feelings know,
And weep a warrior’s shame;
Can Red Earl Gilbert’s spirit feel, Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,
And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame!”


That night, upon the rocks and bay,
The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay, And poured its silver light, and pure,
Through loophole, and through embrazure, Upon Tantallon’s tower and hall;
But chief where arched windows wide Illuminate the chapel’s pride,
The sober glances fall.
Much was there need; though, seamed with scars, Two veterans of the Douglas’ wars,
Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high,
You could not by their blaze descry The chapel’s carving fair.
Amid that dim and smoky light,
Chequering the silvery moonshine bright, A bishop by the altar stood,
A noble lord of Douglas blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye
But little pride of prelacy;
More pleased that, in a barbarous age, He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood: O’er his huge form and visage pale
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;
And leaned his large and wrinkled hand Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore, in battle fray, His foeman’s limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. He seemed as, from the tombs around
Rising at Judgment-Day,
Some giant Douglas may be found
In all his old array;
So pale his face, so huge his limb, So old his arms, his look so grim.


Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels; And think what next he must have felt
At buckling of the falchion belt!
And judge how Clara changed her hue, While fastening to her lover’s side
A friend, which, though in danger tried, He once had found untrue!
Then Douglas struck him with his blade: “Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,
I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton’s heir! For king, for church, for lady fair,
See that thou fight.”
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,
Said–“Wilton! grieve not for thy woes, Disgrace, and trouble;
For he, who honour best bestows,
May give thee double.”
De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must – “Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust
That Douglas is my brother!”
“Nay, nay,” old Douglas said, “not so; To Surrey’s camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother.
I have two sons in yonder field;
And, if thou meet’st them under shield Upon them bravely–do thy worst;
And foul fall him that blenches first!”


Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array,
To Surrey’s camp to ride;
He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide:
The ancient earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered in an under-tone,
“Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.” The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:-
“Though something I might plain,” he said, “Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king’s behest,
While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed; Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble earl, receive my hand.”
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
“My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still Be open, at my sovereign’s will,
To each one whom he lists, howe’er
Unmeet to be the owner’s peer.
My castles are my king’s alone,
From turret to foundation-stone –
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”


Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire,
And–“This to me!” he said;
“‘An ’twere not for thy hoary head, Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared
To cleave the Douglas’ head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He who does England’s message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near – Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword – I tell thee, thou’rt defied!
And if thou said’st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!”
On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth–“And dar’st thou then To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop’st thou thence unscathed to go: No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms–what, warder, ho Let the portcullis fall.”
Lord Marmion turned–well was his need, And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending razed his plume.


The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake’s level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!” But soon he reined his fury’s pace:
“A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the King praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line: So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood.
‘Tis pity of him, too,” he cried:
“Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.”
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.


The day in Marmion’s journey wore;
Yet, ere his passion’s gust was o’er, They crossed the heights of Stanrig Moor. His troop more closely there he scanned, And missed the Palmer from the band.
“Palmer or not,” young Blount did say, “He parted at the peep of day;
Good sooth it was in strange array.” “In what array?” said Marmion, quick.
“My lord, I ill can spell the trick; But all night long, with clink and bang, Close to my couch did hammers clang;
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, And from a loophole while I peep,
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep, Wrapped in a gown of sables fair,
As fearful of the morning air;
Beneath, when that was blown aside, A rusty shirt of mail I spied,
By Archibald won in bloody work
Against the Saracen and Turk:
Last night it hung not in the hall; I thought some marvel would befall.
And next I saw them saddled lead
Old Cheviot forth, the earl’s best steed; A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt in his paces, cool, and bold.
I heard the sheriff Sholto say,
The earl did much the master pray
To use him on the battle-day;
But he preferred”–“Nay, Henry, cease Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace. Eustace, thou bear’st a brain–I pray
What did Blount see at break of day?”


“In brief, my lord, we both descried
(For then I stood by Henry’s side)
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, Upon the earl’s own favourite steed:
All sheathed he was in armour bright, And much resembled that same knight,
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:
Lord Angus wished him speed.”
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, A sudden light on Marmion broke:
“Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!” He muttered; “‘Twas nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.
O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
My path no more to cross.
How stand we now?–he told his tale To Douglas; and with some avail;
‘Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow. Will Surrey dare to entertain,
‘Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain? Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun; Must separate Constance from the nun –
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!
A Palmer too!–no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye:
I might have known there was but one Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.”


Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel’s convent closed their march; (There now is left but one frail arch,
Yet mourn thou not its cells:
Our time a fair exchange has made;
Hard by, in hospitable shade,
A reverend pilgrim dwells,
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood That e’er wore sandal, frock, or hood.)
Yet did Saint Bernard’s Abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair,
And lodging for his train and Clare. Next morn the baron climbed the tower,
To view afar the Scottish power,
Encamped on Flodden edge:
The white pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter snow,
Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion looked: at length his eye Unusual movement might descry
Amid the shifting lines:
The Scottish host drawn out appears, For, flashing on the edge of spears
The eastern sunbeam shines.
Their front now deepening, now extending Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending,
The skilful Marmion well could know, They watched the motions of some foe,
Who traversed on the plain below.


Even so it was. From Flodden ridge
The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore Wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile;
Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, Beneath the castle’s airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing; Troop after troop their banners rearing; Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on stardards, men on men, In slow succession still,
And, sweeping o’er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march,
To gain the opposing hill.
That morn, to many a trumpet clang, Twisel! thy rocks deep echo rang;
And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade which now we see In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room.


And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while, And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,
And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed’s southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead?
What ‘vails the vain knight-errant’s brand? Oh, Douglas for thy leading wand!
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
Oh, for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, And cry, “Saint Andrew and our right!”
Another sight had seen that morn,
From Fate’s dark book a leaf been torn, And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!
The precious hour has passed in vain, And England’s host has gained the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden Hill.


Ere yet the bands met Marmion’s eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, “Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons come
Between Tweed’s river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon: hap what hap,
My basnet to a ‘prentice cap,
Lord Surrey’s o’er the Till!
Yet more! yet more!–how far arrayed They file from out the hawthorn shade,
And sweep so gallant by!
With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armour flashing high,
Saint George might waken from the dead, To see fair England’s standards fly.”
“Stint in thy prate,” quoth Blount, “thou’dst best, And listen to our lord’s behest.”
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said – “This instant be our band arrayed;
The river must be quickly crossed,
That we may join Lord Surrey’s host. If fight King James–as well I trust
That fight he will, and fight he must, The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall tarry, while the battle joins.”


Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu;
Far less would listen to his prayer, To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew, And muttered, as the flood they view,
“The pheasant in the falcon’s claw, He scarce will yield to please a daw:
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,
So Clare shall bide with me.”
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, Where to the Tweed Leat’s eddies creep,
He ventured desperately:
And not a moment will he bide,
Till squire, or groom, before him ride; Headmost of all he stems the tide,
And stems it gallantly.
Eustace held Clare upon her horse,
Old Hubert led her rein,
Stoutly they braved the current’s course, And though far downward driven per force, The southern bank they gain;
Behind them straggling, came to shore, As best they might, the train;
Each o’er his head his yew-bow bore, A caution not in vain;
Deep need that day that every string, By wet unharmed, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, Then forward moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey’s rear-guard won, He halted by a cross of stone,
That, on a hillock standing lone,
Did all the field command.


Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray;
Their marshalled lines stretched east and west, And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation passed
From the loud cannon mouth;
Not in the close successive rattle, That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between.
The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed: “Here, by this cross,” he gently said,
“You well may view the scene.
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: Oh! think of Marmion in thy prayer!
Thou wilt not? well–no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, With ten picked archers of my train;
With England if the day go hard,
To Berwick speed amain.
But if we conquer, cruel maid,
My spoils shall at your feet be laid, When here we meet again.”
He waited not for answer there,
And would not mark the maid’s despair, Nor heed the discontented look
From either squire; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle plain,
His way to Surrey took.


“The good Lord Marmion, by my life!
Welcome to danger’s hour!
Short greeting serves in time of strife: Thus have I ranged my power:
Myself will rule this central host, Stout Stanley fronts their right,
My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight: Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rearward of the fight, And succour those that need it most.
Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, Would gladly to the vanguard go;
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will blithely share: There fight thine own retainers too,
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.” “Thanks, noble Surrey!” Marmion said,
Nor farther greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt,
First in the vanguard made a halt,
Where such a shout there rose
Of “Marmion! Marmion!” that the cry Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.


Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which, for far the day was spent, The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view: Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
“Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.
But see! look up–on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.” And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and fast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland’s war, As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come.
Scarce could they hear or see their foes, Until at weapon-point they close.
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway, and with lance’s thrust; And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;
Oh, life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.
Long looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry.


At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly: And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,
And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight; Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntley and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied, ‘Twas vain:- But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland’s fight. Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard’s lion fell;
Yet still Lord Marmion’s falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell.
The Border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced–forced back–now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose;
As bends the barque’s mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered ‘mid the foes.
No longer Blount the view could bear: “By heaven and all its saints! I swear,
I will not see it lost;
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer – I gallop to the host.”
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large –
The rescued banner rose –
But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine-trees, rooted from the ground, It sunk among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too:- yet stayed, As loth to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion’s steed rushed by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.


Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone: Perchance her reason stoops or reels;
Perchance a courage not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone. The scattered van of England wheels;
She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roared, “Is Wilton there?” They fly, or, maddened by despair,
Fight but to die–“Is Wilton there?” With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses’ feet,
With dinted shield and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion? . . .
Young Blount his armour did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face,
Said–‘By Saint George, he’s gone! That spear-wound has our master sped –
And see, the deep cut on his head!
Good-night to Marmion.”
“Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes,” said Eustace; “peace!”


When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around ‘gan Marmion wildly stare:-
“Where’s Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon–charge again!
Cry–‘Marmion to the rescue!’–Vain! Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne’er be heard again! Yet my last thought is England’s–fly,
To Dacre bear my signet ring:
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His life-blood stains the spotless shield Edmund is down:- my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire – With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland’s central host, Or victory and England’s lost.
Must I bid twice?–hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone–to die.”
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away, Till pain rung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured–“Is there none, Of all my halls have nursed,
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,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!
Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the baron’s casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran:
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; 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 basin fell.
Above some half-worn letters say,
“Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray . For . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Gray . 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 shrive 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,
Oh, 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
The vengeance due to all her wrongs Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone Might bribe him for delay.
It may not be!–this dizzy trance – Curse 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 Supported by the trembling monk.


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,
“Avoid thee, Fiend!–with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner’s sand!
Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer’s grace divine!
Oh, 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 swelled 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.


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 Huntly, and where Home?
Oh, 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, Near Sybil’s Cross the plunderers stray. “Oh, lady,” cried the monk, “away!”
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair,
Of Tillmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer, And at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.


But as they left the dark’ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys 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.
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spearmen 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; Linked 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 shattered 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 swoll’n and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band,
Disordered, 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 shivered was fair Scotland’s spear, And broken was her shield!


Day dawns upon the mountain’s side:-
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one: The sad survivors all are gone.
View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high,
Look northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain,
That, journeying far on foreign strand, The royal pilgrim to his land
May yet return again.
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; Reckless of life, he desperate fought,
And fell on Flodden plain:
And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clenched within his manly hand,
Beseemed the monarch slain.
But, oh! how changed since yon blithe night! Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.


Short is my tale:- Fitz-Eustace’ care A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield’s lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
Did long Lord Marmion’s image bear, (Now vainly for its site you look;
‘Twas levelled, when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took; But, thanks to Heaven, and good Saint Chad, A guerdon meet the spoiler had!)
There erst was martial Marmion found, His feet upon a couchant hound,
His hands to heaven upraised;
And all around, on scutcheon rich,
And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed.
And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain Followed his lord to Flodden plain –
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay In Scotland mourns as “wede away;”
Sore wounded, Sybil’s Cross he spied, And dragged him to its foot, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion’s side.
The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain, And thus their corpses were mista’en;
And thus, in the proud baron’s tomb, The lowly woodsman took the room.


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 The simple cross of Sybil Gray,
And broke her font of stone;
But yet out from the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still.
Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye The memorable field descry;
And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
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 further from the road; Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion’s lowly tomb;
But say, “He died a gallant knight, With sword in hand, for England’s right.”


I do not rhyme to that dull elf,
Who cannot image to himself,
That, all through Flodden’s dismal night, Wilton was foremost in the fight;
That when brave Surrey’s steed was slain, ‘Twas Wilton mounted him again;
‘Twas Wilton’s brand that deepest hewed, Amid the spearmen’s stubborn wood:
Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall,
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again;
And charged his old paternal shield With bearings won on Flodden Field.
Nor sing I to that simple maid,
To whom it must in terms be said,
That king and kinsmen did agree,
To bless fair Clara’s constancy;
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal’s state; That Wolsey’s voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke: That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
And Katherine’s hand the stocking threw; And afterwards, for many a day,
That it was held enough to say,
In blessing to a wedded pair,
“Love they like Wilton and like Clare!”


Why then a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,
Who long have listed to my rede?
To statesmen grave, if such may deign To read the minstrel’s idle strain,
Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, And patriotic heart–as Pitt!
A garland for the hero’s crest,
And twined by her he loves the best. To every lovely lady bright,
What can I wish but faithful knight? To every faithful lover too,
What can I wish but lady true?
And knowledge to the studious sage; – And pillow to the head of age.
To thee, dear schoolboy, whom my lay Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday!
To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!