Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone: 845
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.--
The scatter'd van of England wheels;--
She only said, as loud in air 850
The tumult roar'd, 'Is Wilton there?'--
They fly, or, madden'd by despair,
Fight but to die,--'Is Wilton there?'--
With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 855
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strain'd the broken brand;
His arms were smear'd with blood and sand:
Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 860
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, 865
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: 870
He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace!'