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I will strike in-

[Looks as if towards the Scottish Army.

KING EDWARD.

Answer, proud abbot; is my chaplain's soul, If thou knowest aught on 't, in the evil place?

CHANDOS.

My liege, the Yorkshire men have gain'd the meadow, I see the pennon green of merry Sherwood.

KING EDWARD.

Then give the signal instant! We have lost But too much time already.

ABBOT.

My liege, your holy chaplain's blessed soul

KING EDWARD.

To hell with it, and thee! Is this a time
To speak of monks and chaplains?

[Flourish of Trumpets, answered by a distant sound
of Bugles.

See, Chandos, Percy-Ha, Saint George! Saint Edward!
See it descending now, the fatal bail-shower,
The storm of England's wrath-sure, swift, resistless,
Which no mail-coat can brook.-Brave English hearts!
How close they shoot together!-as one eye
Had aim'd five thousand shafts-as if one hand
Had loosed five thousand bow-strings!

PERCY.

The thick volley
Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us.
KING EDWARD.

It falls on those shall see the sun no more.
The winged, the resistless plague is with them.
How their vex'd host is reeling to and fro,
Like the chafed whale with fifty lances in him!
They do not see, and cannot shun the wound.
The storm is viewless, as death's sable wing,
Unerring as his scythe.

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From his usurp'd kingdom.—(Aloud.) 'T is the worst Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him,

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VIPONT.

Even therefore grieve I for those gallant yeomen,
England's peculiar and appropriate sons,
Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth
And field as free as the best lord his barony,
Owing subjection to no human vassalage,
Save to their king and law. Hence are they resolute,
Leading the van on every day of battle,

As men who know the blessings they defend.
Hence are they frank and generous in peace,
As men who have their portion in its plenty.
No other kingdoin shows such worth and happiness
Veil'd in such low estate-therefore I mourn them.
SWINTON.

I'll keep my sorrow for our native Scots,
Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppression,
Still follow to the field their chieftain's banner,
And die in the defence on 't.

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Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds,
And its rich painting, do seem then most glorious,
When the pure ray gleams through them.—
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name ?

GORDON.

Must I then speak of her to you, Sir Alan?

The thought of thee, and of thy matchless strength,
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her dreams.
The name of Swinton hath been spell sufficient
To chase the rich blood from her lovely cheek,
And wouldst thou now know hers?

SWINTON.

I would, nay, must.

Pennons enow-ay, and their royal standard.
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to roost on.
SWINTON (to himself).

I'll rescue him at least.-Young Lord of Gordon,
Spur to the Regent-show the instant need-

GORDON.

I penetrate thy purpose; but I go not.

SWINTON.

Not at my bidding? I, thy sire in chivalry-
Thy leader in the battle?—I command thee.

GORDON.

No, thou wilt not command me seek my safety,-
For such is thy kind meaning,—at the expense
Of the last hope which Heaven reserves for Scotland.

Thy father in the paths of chivalry
Should know the lode-star thou dost rule thy course by. While I abide, no follower of mine

GORDON.

Nay, then, her name is—hark——

SWINTON.

I know it well, that ancient northern house.

GORDON.

Will turn his rein for life; but were I gone,

[Whispers. What power can stay them? and, our band dispersed,
What swords shall for an instant stem yon host,
And save the latest chance for victory?

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Stand to it yet! The man who flies to-day,
May bastards warm them at his household hearth!

HOB HATTELY.

That ne'er shall be my curse. My Magdalen
Is trusty as my broadsword.

SWINTON.

Ha, thou knave!

Art thou dismounted too?

HOB HATTELY.

I know, Sir Alan,
You want no homeward guide; so threw my reins

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Here lies the way to it, knave.-Make in, make in, And aid young Gordon!

Loud and long alarums.

After

GORDON.

All's lost! all's lost!-Of the main Scottish host, Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly forward; And some there are who seem to turn their spears Against their countrymen.

SWINTON.

Rashness, and cowardice, and secret treason, Combine to ruin us, and our hot valour, Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strength, More fatal unto friends than enemies!

I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no more on 't.—
Let thy hand close them, Gordon-I will think
My fair-hair'd William renders me that office!

GORDON.

[Exeunt.
which the back scene rises, and discovers And, Swinton, I will think I do that duty
To my dead father.

SWINTON on the ground, GORDON supporting him; both much wounded.

SWINTON.

All are cut down-the reapers have pass'd o'er us, And hie to distant harvest.- My toil's over;

Enter DE VIPONT.

VIPONT.

[Dies.

Fly, fly, brave youth!-A handful of thy followers,
The scatter'd gleaning of this desperate day,

There lies my sickle. (Dropping his sword.) Hand of Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue.—

mine again

Shall never, never wield it!

GORDON.

O valiant leader, is thy light extinguish'd!

That only beacon-flame which promised safety In this day's deadly wrack!

SWINTON.

My lamp hath long been dim. don,

O linger not!-I'll be your guide to them.

GORDON.

Look there, and bid me fly!-The oak has fallen; And the young ivy-bush, which learn'd to climb By its support, must needs partake its fall.

VIPONT.

Swinton? Alas! the best, the bravest, strongest,

But thine, young Gor- And sagest of our Scottish chivalry!

Just kindled, to be quench'd so suddenly, Ere Scotland saw its splendour!——

GORDON.

Five thousand horse hung idly on yon hill,
Saw us o'erpower'd, and no one stirr'd to aid us!

SWINTON.

It was the Regent's envy-Out!-alas!
Why blame I him?-It was our civil discord,
Our selfish vanity, our jealous hatred,
Which framed this day of dole for our poor country.
Had thy brave father held yon leading staff,
As well his rank and valour might have claim'd it,
We had not fall'n unaided.-How, O how
Is he to answer it, whose deed prevented!

GORDON.

Alas! alas! the author of the death-feud,
He has his reckoning too! for had your sons
And numerous vassals lived, we had lack'd no aid.

SWINTON.

May God assoil the dead, and him who follows!-
We've drank the poison'd beverage which we brew'd;
Have sown the wind, and reap'd the tenfold whirl-
wind!-

But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness of heart
Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate inflicted;
Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st no forgiveness,-
Why shouldst thou share our punishment?

GORDON.

Forgive one moment, if to save the living,

My tongue should wrong the dead.-Gordon, bethink

thee,

Thou dost but stay to perish with the corpse Of him who slew thy father.

GORDON.

Ay, but he was my sire in chivalry,

He taught my youth to soar above the promptings
Of mean and selfish vengeance; gave my youth
A name that shall not die even on this death-spot.
Records shall tell this field had not been lost,
Had all men fought like Swinton and like Gordon.
Save thee, De Vipont-Hark! the southron trumpets.

VIPONT.

Nay, without thee I stir not.

Enter EDWARD, CHANDOS, PERCY, BALIOL, etc.

GORDON.

Ay, they come on, the tyrant and the traitor,
Workman and tool, Plantagenet and Baliol,
O for a moment's strength in this poor arm,
To do one glorious deed!

[He rushes on the English, but is made pri-
soner with VIPONT.

KING EDWARD.

Disarm them-harm them not; though it was they
Made havoc on the archers of our van-guard,
They and that bulky champion. Where is he?

CHANDOS.

All need forgiveness-(Distant alarum.)-Hark! in Here lies the giant! Say his name, young knight! yonder shout

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singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called, The Glen of the Green Women.

Glenfiulas is a tract of forest ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now be

longs to the Earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue called the Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river | Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and

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