I gallop to the host.’ 
And to the fray he rode amain, 825
Follow’d 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, 830
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
  It sank among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too:—­yet staid,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,
  When, fast as shaft can fly, 835
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
  Lord Marmion’s steed rush’d by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840
  A look and sign to Clara cast,
  To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.

XXVIII.

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!’

XXIX.

When, doff’d 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! 875
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, 880
  To Dacre bear my signet-ring: 
  Tell him his squadrons up to bring.—­
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;
  Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
  His life-blood stains the spotless shield:  885