When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around ’gan Marmion wildly stare:—
“Where’s Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon—charge again!
Cry—‘Marmion to the rescue!’—Vain!
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 nursed,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessèd water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst?”
