With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound: 965
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; 970
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, 975
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!--
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O, think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been, 980
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.'--
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,
And--STANLEY! was the cry;-- 985
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!-- 990
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'
Were the last words of Marmion.