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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, dor'd 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 wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmur'd—“Is there none,

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,
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 stoop'd her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew,
For oozing from the mountain wide,
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. Brey.

Who. built. this. cross. and. well.”
She fill'd 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 stoop'd 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
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, 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.

SCOTT. THE CHASE.

The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;
But, when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay
Resounded up the rocky way,
And faint, from farther distance borne,
Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

As Chief, who hears his warder call,
“To arms! the foemen storm the wall,”
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky;
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale,
A moment listen’d to the cry
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

Yell’d on the view the opening pack ;
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back ;

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