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 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, 890 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, 895 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmur'd,--'Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, 900 To slake my dying thirst!' XXX.