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 armour 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!”
