Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII.

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,

* Each of these feudal ensigns intimated the different rank of those entitled to display them.

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.

XXIX.

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 a vain essay;

For, by Saint George, were that host mine,

Not power infernal, nor divine,

Should once to peace my soul incline,

Till I had dimm'd their armour'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,

When peace and wealth their land has bless'd,

'Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall."

XXX.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,

For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.

When sated with the martial show

That peopled all the plain below,

The wandering eye could o'er it go,

And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red;

For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed,

And tinged them with a lustre proud,

Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.

Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,

Where the huge castle holds its state,

And all the steep slope down,

Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town!

But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you ṣaw ;
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;
And, broad between them roll'd,
The gallant Firth the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;

As if to give his rapture vent,

The spur he to his charger lent,

And raised his bridle-hand,

And, making demi-volte in air,

Cried, "Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land !”

The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;

Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,

Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,

And fife, and kettle-drum,

And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

And war-pipe with discordant cry,

And cymbal clattering to the sky,

Making wild music bold and high,

Did up the mountain come;

The whilst the bells, with distant chime,

Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,

And thus the Lindesay spoke :

"Thus clamour still the war-notes when

The King to mass his way has ta'en,

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