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 bark’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-tree rooted from the ground. 
    It sunk among the foes. 
  Then Eustace mounted too;—­yet stayed,
  As loath 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 armor 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!