Short is my tale:—Fitz-Eustace’ care A pierced and mangled body bare To moated Lichfield’s lofty pile; And there, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, Did long Lord Marmion’s image bear, (Now vainly for its site you look; ’Twas levelled, when fanatic Brook The fair cathedral stormed and took; But, thanks to Heaven, and good Saint Chad, A guerdon meet the spoiler had!) There erst was martial Marmion found, His feet upon a couchant hound, His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain Followed his lord to Flodden plain— One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay In Scotland mourns as “wede away;” Sore wounded, Sybil’s Cross he spied, And dragged him to its foot, and died, Close by the noble Marmion’s side. The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain, And thus their corpses were mista’en; And thus, in the proud baron’s tomb, The lowly woodsman took the room.
Less easy task it were, to show Lord Marmion’s nameless grave, and low. They dug his grave e’en where he lay, But every mark is gone: Time’s wasting hand has done away The simple cross of Sybil Gray, And broke her font of stone; But yet out from the little hill Oozes the slender springlet still. Oft halts the stranger there, For thence may best his curious eye The memorable field descry; And shepherd boys repair To seek the water-flag and rush, And rest them by the hazel bush, And plait their garlands fair; Nor dream they sit upon the grave That holds the bones of Marmion brave. When thou shalt find the little hill, With thy heart commune, and be still. If ever, in temptation strong, Thou left’st the right path for the wrong; If every devious step, thus trod, Still led thee further from the road; Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom On noble Marmion’s lowly tomb; But say, “He died a gallant knight, With sword in hand, for England’s right.”
I do not rhyme to that dull elf, Who cannot image to himself, That, all through Flodden’s dismal night, Wilton was foremost in the fight; That when brave Surrey’s steed was slain, ’Twas Wilton mounted him again; ’Twas Wilton’s brand that deepest hewed, Amid the spearmen’s stubborn wood: Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, He was the living soul of all; That, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again; And charged his old paternal shield With bearings won on Flodden Field. Nor sing I to that simple maid, To whom it must in terms be said, That king and kinsmen did agree, To bless fair Clara’s constancy; Who cannot, unless I relate, Paint to her mind the bridal’s state; That Wolsey’s voice the blessing spoke, More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke: That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Katherine’s hand the stocking threw; And afterwards, for many a day, That it was held enough to say, In blessing to a wedded pair, “Love they like Wilton and like Clare!”