May yet return again. 
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 1080
  And fell on Flodden plain: 
And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clench’d within his manly hand,
  Beseem’d the monarch slain. 
But, O! how changed since yon blithe night! 1085
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
  Unto my tale again.

XXXVI.

Short is my tale:—­Fitz-Eustace’ care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield’s lofty pile; 1090
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 levell’d, when fanatic Brook 1095
The fair cathedral storm’d 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, 1100
  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, 1105
And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer,
The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain
Follow’d his lord to Flodden plain,—­
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 1110
In Scotland mourns as ‘wede away’: 
Sore wounded, Sybil’s Cross he spied,
And dragg’d him to its foot, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion’s side. 
The spoilers stripp’d and gash’d the slain, 1115
And thus their corpses were mista’en;
And thus, in the proud Baron’s tomb,
The lowly woodsman took the room.

XXXVII.

Less easy task it were, to show
Lord Marmion’s nameless grave, and low. 1120
  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 Grey,
    And broke her font of stone:  1123
But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still,
Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry; 1130
  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, 1135
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; 1140
If every devious step, thus trod,
Still led thee farther from the road;
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion’s lowly tomb;
But say, ’He died a gallant knight, 1145
With sword in hand, for England’s right.’