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 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 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.—­
  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