THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       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 baron’s casque, the maid

       To the nigh streamlet ran:

       Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;

       The plaintive voice alone she hears,

       Sees but the dying man.

       She stooped her by the runnel’s side,

       But in abhorrence backward drew;

       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,

       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 . Gray .

       Who . built . this . cross . and . well . “

       She filled the helm, and back she hied,

       And with surprise and joy espied

       A monk supporting Marmion’s head;

       A pious man, whom duty brought

       To dubious verge of battle fought,

       To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

       XXXI

      Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,

       And, as she stooped his brow to lave -

       “Is it the hand of Clare,” he said,

       “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;

       Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!”

       “Alas!” she said, “the while,

       Oh, think of your immortal weal!

       In vain for Constance is your zeal;

       She—died at Holy Isle.”

       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.

       “Then it was truth,” he said—”I knew

       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,

       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!

       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 staunch the gushing wound:

       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;

       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,

       Shake not the dying sinner’s sand!

       Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign

       Of the Redeemer’s grace divine!

       Oh, think on faith and bliss!

       By many a deathbed I have been,

       And many a sinner’s parting seen,

       But never aught like this.”

       The war, that for a space did fail,

       Now trebly thundering swelled the gale

       And—”Stanley!” was the cry;

       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!

       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,

       Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.

       Where’s now their victor vaward wing,

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