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, 890
  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, 895
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, 900
  To slake my dying thirst!’

XXX.

O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made; 905
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:  910
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; 915
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, 920
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 .Grey .
925
  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 930
To dubious verge of battle fought,
  To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.

XXXI.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stoop’d his brow to lave—­
‘Is it the hand of Clare,’ he said, 935
‘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 940
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.’—­ 945
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.