With the first boat descends he for the shore,
And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,
To bear him, like an arrow, to that height!
With the first pause the resting rowers gave,
He waits not, looks not, leaps into the wave,
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high
Ascends the path familiar to his eye.
He reached his turret door-he paused-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knocked, and loudly: footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard, or deemed him nigh.
He knock'd, but faintly-for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens-'tis a well-known face,
But not the form he panted to embrace.
Its lips are silent: twice his own essayed,
And failed to frame the question they delayed.
He snatched the lamp-its light will answer all—
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray;
As soon could he have lingered there for day
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,
Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor;
His steps the chamber gain; his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not, yet foretold!
He turned not, spoke not, sunk not, fixed his look,
And set the anxious frame that lately shook:
He gazed; how long we gaze, despite of pain,
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect withered there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contained,
In that last grasp, as tenderly were strained
As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep.
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veiled-thought shrinks from all that lurked below.
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light;
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips.
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And wished repose, but only for a while.
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long, fair, but spread in utter lifelessness,
Which, late the sport of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind :
These, and the pale pure cheek, became the bier.
But she is nothing! wherefore is he here?
He asked no question-all were answered now
By the first glance on that still marble brow.
It was enough-she died-what recked it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears;
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once! and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less. The good explore
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar.
The proud, the wayward, who have fixed below
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe,
Lose in that one their all-perchance a mite :
But who in patience parts with all delight?
Full many a stoic-eye and aspect stern,
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn;
And many a withering thought lies hid-not lost-
In smiles that least befit who wear them most.
By those that deepest feel, is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none:
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lulled it into rest;
So feeble now, his mother's softness crept
To those wild eyes, which, like an infant's, wept :
It was the very weakness of his brain,
Which thus confessed, without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears; perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flowed; he dried them to depart,
In helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart.
The sun goes forth, but Conrad's day is dim;
And the night cometh, ne'er to pass from him.
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind
On grief's vain eye-the blindest of the blind!
Which may not, dare not, see, but turns aside
To blackest shade, nor will endure a guide!
'Tis morn! to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower.
He was not there, nor seen along the shore:
Ere night, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er.
Another morn! another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount, grotto, cavern, valley, searched in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain :
Their hope revives, they follow o'er the main.
"Tis idle all! moons roll on moons away,
And Conrad comes not-came not since that day:
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare
Where lives his grief, or perished his despair!
Long mourned his band, whom none could mourn beside;
And fair the monument they gave his bride:
For him they raise not the recording stone;
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known:
He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still,
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view:
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,-
Unworthy office here to stay!
"No hope of gilded spurs to-day.
"But see; look up! on Flodden bent,
"The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke; Volumed, and fast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war As down the hill they broke.. Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly.
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle-yell.
The Border slogan rent the sky:
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry.
No longer Blount the view could bear:
By heaven and all its saints! I swear
I will not see it lost!
"Fitz-Eustace, you, with Lady Clare,
May bid your beads, and patter prayer; "I gallop to the host."
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train;
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large-
The rescued banner rose.
But darkly closed the war around;
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too; yet stayed,
As loth to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody-red,
Lord Marmion's steed rushed by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.
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,
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,
"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 wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none,
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