XXXVI.

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