XXXVII.

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