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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,
With falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion?

When, doffed 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!

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,
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:
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."
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 runnel's side.
She fill'd 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 shrieve 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, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,— "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"

"Alas!" she said, "the while,—

O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She- -died at Holy Isle."
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!" he said. "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.

I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar-stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be !—this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand !
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."-
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound
And strove to stanch the gushing wound.
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear;

And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung.

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, Fiend!—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

O think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry :—

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head

He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on !”
Were the last words of Marmion.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

(THOMAS HOOD.)

With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-Stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt; and still with a voice of dolorous pitch she sang the "Song of the Shirt!”

"Work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof! and work! work! work! till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh, to be a slave along with the barbarous Turk, where woman has never a soul to save, if this is Christian work!

"Work! work! work! till the brain begins to swim; work! work! work! till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band; band, and gusset, and seam; till over the buttons I fall asleep, and sew them on in a dream. O men, with sisters dear! O men with mothers and wives! it is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures' lives. Stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt; sewing at once, with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death? that phantom of grisly bone; I hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own. It seems so like my own, because of the fasts I keep; O God, that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work! work! work! My labour never flags; and what are its wages? A bed of straw, a crust of bread —and rags. That shattered roof and this naked floor,

a table, a broken chair, and a wall so blank, my shadow I thank for sometimes falling there.

"Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime; work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime. Band, and gusset, and seam; seam, and gusset, and band; till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand.

"Work! work! work! in the dull December light; and work! work! work! when the weather is warm and bright, while underneath the eaves the brooding swallows cling, as if to show their sunny backs, and twit me with the spring.

"Oh, but to breathe the breath of the cowslip and primrose sweet, with the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet; for only one short hour to feel as I used to feel, before I knew the woes of want, and the walk that costs a meal! Oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; but in their briny bed my tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread."

With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-Stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt; and still with a voice of dolorous pitch-would that its tone could reach the rich !-she sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

(HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.)

I looked far back into other years, and lo! in bright

array

I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.
It was a stately convent with its old and lofty walls,
And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft
the footstep falls;

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