A gallery of famous English and American poets . ms were smeared with blood and sand: Dragged from among the horses feet. Do o With dinted shield, and helmet falcon-crest and plumage that be haughty Marmion ! . .Young Blount his armor did , gazing on his ghastly face, Said— By Saint George, hes gone !That spear-wound has our master 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:—Wheres Harry Blount? Fit
A gallery of famous English and American poets . ms were smeared with blood and sand: Dragged from among the horses feet. Do o With dinted shield, and helmet falcon-crest and plumage that be haughty Marmion ! . .Young Blount his armor did , gazing on his ghastly face, Said— By Saint George, hes gone !That spear-wound has our master 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:—Wheres Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?Redeem my pennon,—chai-ge again !Cry—Marmion to the rescue!—Vain!Last of my race, on battle-plainThat shout shall neer be heard again !— THE BATTLE OP FLODBEN. 155 Yet my last thou2;ht is Englands—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 lifeblood stains the spotless shield:. Edmund is down: my life is reft;The Admiral alone is Stanley charge with spur of fire,—With Chester charge, and Lancashire,Full upon Scotlands central host,Or victory and Englands lost.— 156 SCOTT. Must I bid twice?—hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone—to die. They parted, and alone he lay; Glare drew her from the sight away,Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,And half he murmured—Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst,Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bringOf blessed water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst? 0, 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 Barons casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran :Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;The plaintive voice alone she hears. Sees but the dying
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
