XVI.

One pitying glance the Monarch sped,

Where on the field his foe lay dead;

Then gently turn'd his palfrey's head,
And, pacing back his sober way,

Slowly he gain'd his own array.

There round their King the leaders crowd,

And blame his recklessness aloud,

That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous spear

A life so valued and so dear.

His broken weapon's shaft survey'd

The King, and careless answer made,—
"My loss may pay my folly's tax;
I've broke my trusty battle-axe."—
'Twas then Fitz-Louis, bending low,

Did Isabel's commission show;

Edith, disguised, at distance stands,

And hides her blushes with her hands.

The monarch's brow has changed its hue,

Away the gory axe he threw,

While to the seeming page he drew,

Clearing war's terrors from his eye.

Her hand with gentle ease he took,
With such a kind protecting look,

As to a weak and timid boy
Might speak, that elder brother's care
And elder brother's love were there.

XVII.

"Fear not," he said, "young Amadine!"

Then whisper'd, "Still that name be thine.

Fate plays her wonted fantasy,

Kind Amadine, with thee and me,

And sends thee here in doubtful hour.

But soon we are beyond her power;

For on this chosen battle-plain,

Victor or vanquish'd, I remain.

Do thou to yonder hill repair;

The followers of our host are there,

And all who

may not weapons bear.

Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care.—

Joyful we meet, if all go well;

If not, in Arran's holy cell

Thou must take part with Isabel;

For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath sworn,

Not to regain the Maid of Lorn,

(The bliss on earth he covets most,)

Would he forsake his battle-post,

Or shun the fortune that may fall

To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all.

But, hark! some news these trumpets tell;

Forgive my haste-farewell-farewell.”—

And in a lower voice he said,

"Be of good cheer-farewell, sweet maid !"

XVIII.

"What train of dust, with trumpet-sound

And glimmering spears, is wheeling round

Our leftward flank ?"-the Monarch cried,

To Moray's Earl who rode beside.

"Lo! round thy station pass the foes! Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose."The Earl his visor closed, and said,

"My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade.Follow, my household !"-And they go Like lightning on the advancing foe. "My Liege," said noble Douglas then, "Earl Randolph has but one to ten: Let me go forth his band to aid !”— "Stir not. The error he hath made, Let him amend it as he may;

I will not weaken mine array."

Then loudly rose the conflict-cry,

And Douglas's brave heart swell'd high,"My Liege," he said, "with patient ear I must not Moray's death-knell hear !"— “Then go-but speed thee back again.”. Forth sprung the Douglas with his train ;

But, when they won a rising hill,

He bade his followers hold them still.

"See, see! the routed Southern fly!
The Earl hath won the victory.

Lo! where yon steeds run masterless,
His banner towers above the press.
Rein up; our presence would impair
The fame we come too late to share.”-
Back to the host the Douglas rode,
And soon glad tidings are abroad,

That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain,
His followers fled with loosen'd rein.-

That skirmish closed the busy day,

And couch'd in battle's prompt array,

Each army on their weapons lay.

1

XIX.

It was a night of lovely June,

High rode in cloudless blue the moon,

Demayet smiled beneath her ray;