’Then it was truth,’—­he said—­’I knew 950
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, 955
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! 960
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.’ 
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.

XXXII.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:  965
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; 970
  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, 975
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, 980
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;—­ 985
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!—­ 990
Charge, Chester, charge!  On, Stanley, on!’
Were the last words of Marmion.

XXXIII.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle’s deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their King, 995
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where’s now their victor vaward wing,
  Where Huntly, and where Home?—­
O, for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 1000
  That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
  On Roncesvalles died! 
Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, 1005
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, 1010
  Our Caledonian pride! 
In vain the wish—­for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil’s Cross the plunderers stray.—­