True son of chivalry should hold These midnight terrors vain; For seldom have such spirits power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbor unrepented sin.".
Lord Marmion turned him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then press'd Sir David's hand — But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their farther converse staid, Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland's camp to take their way. Such was the King's command.
Early they took Dun-Edin's road, And I could trace each step they trode. Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to me unknown.
Much might it boast of storied lore;
But, passing such digression o'er, Suffice it that the route was laid Across the furzy hills of Braid. They passed the glen and scanty rill, And climbed the opposing bank, until They gained the top of Blackford Hill.
Blackford! on whose uncultured breast, Among the broom, and thorn, and whim, A truant-boy, I sought the nest, Or listed, as I lay at rest,
While rose, on breezes thin, The murmur of the city crowd, And, from his steeple jangling loud, Saint Giles's mingling din.
Now, from the summit to the plain, Waves all the hill with yellow grain; And o'er the landscape as I look, Nought do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
To me they make a heavy moan,
Of early friendships past and gone.
But different far the change has been Since Marmion, from the crown Of Blackford, saw that martial scene Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow, Spread all the Borough-moor below, Upland, and dale, and down: — A thousand did I say? I ween
Thousands on thousands there were seen, That chequer'd all the heath between The streamlet and the town; In crossing ranks extending far, Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way, where still there stood Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,
And tamed the glaring white with green:
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array.
For from Hebudes, dark with rain, To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, And from the Southern Redswire edge, To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge; From west to east, from south to north, Scotland sent all her warriors forth. Marmion might hear the mingled hum Of myriads up the mountain come; The horses' tramp, the tingling clank, Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank, And charger's shrilling neigh; And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flash'd, from shield to lance, The sun's reflected ray.
Thin curling in the morning air, The wreaths of failing smoke declare. To embers now the brands decay'd, Where the night-watch their fires had made. They saw, slow rolling on the plain, Full many a baggage-cart and wain, And dire artillery's clumsy car, By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war;
And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, And culverins which France had given. Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.
Nor mark'd they less, where in the air A thousand streamers flaunted fair; Various in shape, device, and hue, Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square, Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there O'er the pavilions flew.
Highest and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;
The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone, Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard's weight Whene'er the western wind unroll'd, With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, And gave to view the dazzling field, Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield, The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright- He view'd it with a chief's delight – Until within him burn'd his heart, And lightning from his eye did part, As on the battle-day;
Such glance did falcon never dart, When stooping on his prey. "Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but in vain essay;
For, by St. George, were that host mine, Not power infernal nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armor's shine
In glorious battle-fray!
Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood:
"Fair is the sight — and yet 'twere good That kings would think withal,
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