XXXIII. By this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their king, Where's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntley, and where Home?— O for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again, While yet on Flodden side, Afar, the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, Our Caledonian pride! In vain the wish-for far away, While spoil and havoc mark their way, Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. "O, Lady," cried the Monk," away!"- And placed her on her steed; And led her to the chapel fair, Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. There all the night they spent in prayer, And, at the dawn of morning, there She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. XXXIV. But as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in vollies hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep, To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight ;- Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low, They melted from the field as snow, When streams are swollen and south winds blow, Dissolves in-silent dew. |