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She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendands, two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered-I may well term them dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years afterwards. As the murderers, or executioners, call them as you will, dragged him along, he recognized me even in that moment of horrour, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, "O, Mr. Osbaldistone, save me!-save me!"

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by some, while others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again eagerly stripped him of some part of his dress. Half-naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death-shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, however, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters of the lake, and the Highlanders, with their poleaxes and swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been securely bound; the victim sunk without effort; the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, was for ever withdrawn from the sum of human existence.

BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD, AND DEATH OF MARMION.

SCOTT.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still

With Lady Clare upon the hill,

On which, (for far the day was spent,)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
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 bank of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke;
Volumed, and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke:
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain throne
King James did rushing come.

Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon point they close.

They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lances thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentious birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought decry.
At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew:
Then marked they dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,

And plumed crests of chieftains brave,

Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
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;
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced, forced back,-now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose:
As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds and sail,
It wavered mid the foes.

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 staid,
As loath 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.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone:
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.-
The scattered van of England wheels;
She only said, as loud in air

The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"
They fly, or, maddened by despair,
Fight but to die." Is Wilton there?".
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, "peace!"

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:-

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"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-
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie:

Tunstal lies dead upon the field;

His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down,-my life is reft;-

The Admiral alone is left.

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."

L

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,

Of all my halls have nursed,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water, from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst?"—

O, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

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 rnnel's side,
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.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stooped his brow to lave-
"Is it the hand of Clare," he said,

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