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And am I not still fatherless! Swin.

Gordon, no; For while we live, I am a father to thee. Gor. Thou, Swinton? no! that cannot, cannot be.

Swin. Then change the phrase, and say, that
while we live,

Gordon shall be my son. If thou art fatherless,
Am I not childless too? Bethink thee, Gordon,
Our death-feud was not like the household fire,
Which the poor peasant hides among its embers,
To smoulder on, and wait a time for waking.
Ours was the conflagration of the forest,
Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor stem,
Hoar oak, nor sapling-not to be extinguish'd,
Till heaven, in mercy, sends down all her waters.
But, once subdued, it's flame is quench'd for ever;
And spring shall hide the track of devastation,
With foliage and with flowers. Give me thy
hand.

Gor. My hand and heart!-And freely nowto fight!

Vip. How will you act? [To SWINTON.]
Gordon's band and thine

The

Are in the rearward left, I think, in scorn.
Ill post for them who wish to charge the foremost!
Swin. We'll turn that scorn to vantage, and
descend

Sidelong the hill-some winding path there must be.

Per. The Scots still keep the hill-the sun

grows high.

Would that the charge would sound!

Chan. Thou scent'st the slaughter, Percy. Who comes here?

Enter the ABBOT OF WALTHAMSTOW. Now, by my life, the holy priest of Walthamstow, Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves! See, he's about to bleat.

Ab. The king, methinks, delays the onset long. Chan. Your general, father, like your ratcatcher,

Pauses to bait his traps, and set his snares.
Ab. The metaphor is descent.
Chan.

Reverend sir,
I will uphold it just. Our good king Edward
Will presently come to this battle-field,
And speak to you of the last tilting match,
Or of some feat he did a twenty years since;
But not a word of the day's work before him.
Even as the artist, sir, whose name offends you,
Sits prosing o'er his can, until the trap fall,
Announcing that the vermin are secured,
And then 'tis up, and on them.

Per. Chandos, you give your tongue too bold a license.

Chan. Percy, I am a necessary evil. King Edward would not want me, if he could, And could not, if he would. I know my value; My heavy hand excuses my light tongue. So men wear weighty swords in their defence, HOB HATTELY starts up from a thicket. Although they may offend the tender shin, Hob. So here he stands.-An ancient friend, sir When the steel boot is doff'd.

O, for a well-skill'd guide!

`Alan.

Hob Hattely, or, if you like it better,

Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands your guide! Swin. An ancient friend?-A most notorious knave,

Whose throat I've destined to the dodder'd oak Before my castle, these ten months and more. Was it not you, who drove from Simprim-mains, And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of cattle?

Hob. What then? If now I lead your sixty lances Upon the English flank, where they'll find spoil Is worth six hundred beeves?

Swin. Why, thou canst do it, knave. I would not trust thee

With one poor bullock; yet would risk my life, And all my followers, on thine honest guidance.

Hob. There is a dingle, and a most discreet one, (I've trod each step by starlight,) that sweeps round

The rearward of this hill, and opens secretly
Upon the archers' flank. Will not that serve
Your present turn, sir Alan?

Swin.

Bravely, bravely! Gor. Mount, sirs, and cry my slogan. Let all who love the Gordon follow me!

Swin. Ay, let all follow-but in silence follow. Scare not the hare that's couchant on her form The cushat from her nest-brush not, if possible, The dew-drop from the spray

Let no one whisper, until I cry, "Havoc!"
Then shout as loud's will.-On, on, brave Hob;
On, thou false thief, but yet most faithful Scotsman!

ye

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Ab.

My lord of Chandos,
This is but idle speech on brink of battle,
When christian men should think upon their sins:
For as the tree falls, so the trunk must lie,
Be it for good or evil. Lord, bethink thee,
Thou hast withheld from our most reverend house,
The tithes of Everingham and Settleton;
Wilt thou make satisfaction to the church
Before her thunders strike thee? 1 do warn thee
In most paternal sort.

Chan. I thank you, father, filially,
Though but a truant son of holy church,
I would not choose to undergo her censures
When Scottish blades are waving at my throat.
I'll make fair composition.

Ab. No composition; I'll have all or none.
Chan. None, then-'tis soonest spoke. I'll
take my chance,

And trust my sinful soul to heaven's mercy,
Rather than risk my worldly goods with thee-
My hour may not be come.

Ab. Impious-impenitent

Per.

Hush! the king-the king! Enter KING EDWARD, attended by BALIOL, an

others.

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They are marching thither. K. Ed. Bid them make haste, for shame-send a quick rider.

The loitering knaves, were it to steal my venison, Their steps were light enough.-How now, sir abbot?

Say, is your reverence come to study with us
The princely art of war?

Ab. I've had a lecture from my lord of Chandos,
In which he term'd your grace a rat-cather.
K. Ed. Chandos, how's this?

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not answer

On that nice point. We must observe his humour.Addresses the KING. Your first campaign, my liege?—That was in Weardale,

When Douglas gave our camp yon midnight ruffle, And turn'd men's beds to biers.

K. Ed. Ay, by saint Edward!-I escaped right nearly.

1 was a soldier then for holidays,

And slept not in mine armour: my safe rest
Was startled by the cry of Douglas! Douglas!
And by my couch, a grisly chamberlain,
Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody mace.
It was a churchman saved me-my stout chaplain,
Heaven quit his spirit! caught a weapon up,
And grappled with the giant.-How now, Louis?
Enter an officer, who whispers the KING.
K. Ed. Say to him,—thus-and thus-

[Whispers. Ab. That Swinton's dead, a monk of ours reported,

Bound homeward from saint Ninian's pilgrimage, The lord of Gordon slew him.

Per. Father, and if your house stood on our borders,

You might have cause to know that Swinton lives, And is on horseback yet.

Chan. He slew the Gordon, That's all the difference-a very trifle.

Ab. Trifling to those who wage a war more noble Than with the arm of flesh.

Chan. (apart.) The abbot's vex'd, I'll rub the sore for him.

(Aloud.) I have used that arm of flesh,
And used it sturdily-most reverend father,
What say you to the chaplain's deed of arms
In the king's tent at Weardale?

Ab. It was most sinful, being against the canon
Prohibiting all churchmen to bear weapons;
And as he fell in that unseemly guise,
Perchance his soul may rue it.

King. (overhearing the last words.) Who may rue?

And what is to be rued?

Chan. (apart.) I'll match his reverence for the tithes of Everingham.

The abbot says, my liege, the deed was sinful
By which your chaplain, wielding secular weapons,
Secured your grace's life and liberty,
And that he suffers for't in purgatory.

King. (to the ABBOT.) Say'st thou my chaplain is in purgatory?

Ab. It is the canon speaks it, good my liege. King. In purgatory! thou shalt pray him out on't, Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him.

Ab. My lord, perchance his soul is past the aid Of all the church may do-there is a place From which there's no redemption.

King. And if I thought my faithful chaplain there, Thou shouldst there join him, priest!-Go, watch, fast, pray,

And let me have such prayers as will storm hea

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Chan. Wilt thou compound, then, The tithes of Everingham?

King. I tell thee, if thou bear'st the keys of heaven,

Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with them 'Gainst any well-deserving English subject.

Ab. (to CHANDOS.) We will compound, and grant thee, too, a share

I' the next indulgence. Thou dost need it much.
And greatly 'twill avail thee.

Chan. Enough—we're friends, and when occasion serves, I will strike in.

[Looks as if towards the Scottish army. King. Answer, proud abbot, is my chaplain's soul,

If thou knowest aught on't, in the evil place? Chan. My liege, the Yorkshire men have gain'd the meadow.

1 see the pennon green of merry Sherwood. King. Then give the signal instant. We have lost But too much time already.

Ab. My liege, your holy chaplain's blessed soul

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

[Flourish of trumpets, answered by a distans 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, re sistless,

Which no mail-coat can brook. Brave English

hearts!

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Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us.

King. 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 sithe.

Per. Horses and riders are going down together.
"Tis almost pity to see nobles fall,
And by a peasant's arrow.

Bal.

I could weep them,

Although they are my rebels.

Chan. (aside to PERCY.) His conquerors, he means, who cast him out

From his usurp'd kingdom. (Aloud.) 'Tis the
worst of it,

That knights can claim small honour in the field
Which archers win, unaided by our lances.

King. The battle is not ended. [Looks towards
the field.

Not ended!-scarce begun!--What horse are these,
Rush from the thicket underneath the hill?

Per. They're Hainaulters, the followers of queen
Isabel.

And by that token bid him send us succour.
Gor. And tell him that when Selby's headlong
charge

Had well nigh borne me down, sir Alan smote
him.

I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell
Went to so many shivers.-Hark'ye, grooms!
[To those behind the scenes
Why do you let my noble steed stand stiffening
After so hot a course?

Swin. Ay, breathe your horses, they'll have
work anon,

For Edward's men-at-arms will soon be on us,
The flower of England, Gascony, and Flanders;
But with swift succour we will bide them bravely.
De Vipont, thou look'st sad!

Vip. It is because I hold a templar's sword
Wet to the crossed hilt with christian blood.
Swin. The blood of English archers--what can
gild

A Scottish blade more bravely?

Vip. Even therefore grieve I for those gallant
yeomen,

England's peculiar and appropriate sons,
Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth

King. (hastily.) Hainaulters!—thou art blind-And field as free as the best lord his barony,

wear Hainaulters

Saint Andrew's silver cross?—or would they charge
Full on our archers, and make havoc of them?
Bruce is alive again-ho, rescue! rescue!
Who was❜t surveyed the ground?

Ribau. Most royal liege

King. A rose hath fallen from thy chaplet,' Ri

baumont.

Ribau. I'll win it back, or lay my head beside it.
[Exit.
King. Saint George! saint Edward! Gentlemen,
to horse,

And to the rescue! Percy, lead the bill-men;
Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at-arms.
If yonder numerous host should now bear down
Bold as their van-guard, (to the abbot,) thou may'st
pray for us,

Owing subjection to no human vassalage,
Save to their king and law. Hence are they re-
solute,

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 kingdom shows such worth and happi-

ness

Veil'd in such low estate-therefore I mourn them.
Swin. 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.

Gor. And if I live and see my halls again, They shall have portion in the good they fight for. Each hardy follower shall have his field, We may need good men's prayers. To the rescue, His household hearth and sod-built home, as free Lords, to the rescue! ha, saint George! saint Ed-As ever southron had. They shall be happy! And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it! I have betray'd myself.

ward!

SCENE II.

[Exeunt. A part of the Field of Battle betwixt the two Main Armies; tumults behind the scenes; alarms, and cries of "Gordon! a Gordon!" "Swinton!" &c. Enter, as victorious over the English van-guard, VIPONT, REYNALD, and others. Vip. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-eries sound

together,

Gordon and Swinton.

Rey. 'Tis passing pleasant, yet 'tis strange withal.
Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's slogan
Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck down
The knave who cried it.

Enter SWINTON and GORDON.
Swin. Pitch down my pennon in yon holly bush.
Gor. Mine in the thorn beside it; let them wave,
As fought this morn their masters, side by side.

Swin. let the men rally, and restore their ranks
Here on this vantage-ground-disorder'd chase
Leads to disorder'd flight; we have done our part,
And if we're succour'd now, Plantagenet
Must turn his bridle southward.
Reynald, spur to the regent with the basnet
Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van-guard;
Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him,

Swin.

Do not believe it.

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height,
And see what motion in the Scottish host,
And in king Edward's.
[Exit VIPONT
Now will I counsel thee;
The templar's ear is for no tale of love,
Being wedded to his order. But I tell thee,
The brave young knight that hath no lady-love
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?

Gor. 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 would'st thou now know her's?
Swin.
I would, nay, must
Thy father in the paths of chivalry
Should know the load-star thou dost rule thy
course by.

Gor. Nay, then, her name is hark Whispers.
Swin. I know it well, that ancient northern

house.

Gor. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace and ho-
nour,

In my Elizabeth. And if music touch thee
Swin. It did, before disasters had untuned me.
Gor. O, her notes

Shall hush each sad remembrance to oblivion,
Or melt them to such gentleness of feeling,
That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, but she,
Knows the wild harpings of our native land?
Whether they lull the shepherd on his hill,
Or wake the knight to battle; rouse to merriment,
Or sooth to sadness; she can touch each mood.
Princes and statesmen, chiefs renown'd in arms,
And gray-hair'd bards, contend which shall the
first

And choicest homage render to th' enchantress.
Swin. You speak her talent bravely.
Gor.

Though you smile,
1 do not speak it half. Her gift creative
New measures adds to every air she wakes;
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweetness,
Like the wild modulation of the lark,
Now leaving, now returning to the strain!-
To listen to her, is to seem to wander
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance,
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will,
Who wove the spell, can extricate the wanderer:
Methinks I hear her now!-

Swin.
Bless'd privilege
Of youth! There's scarce three minutes to decide
Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and defeat,
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower,
istu'ing her harping!--
Enter VIPONT,

Where are thine, De Vipont?
Vip. On death-on judgment-on eternity!
For time is over with us.

Swin. There moves not then one pennon to our
aid,

O all that flutter yonder?

Vip. From the main English host come rushing
forward

Pennons enow-ay, and their royal standard.
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to roost on.
Swin. (to himself.) I'll rescue him at least. Young
lord of Gordon,

Must it be so?

Swin.
And am I forced to yield the sad consent,
Devoting thy young life? O, Gordon, Gordon!
I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue;
1 at my country's, he at heaven's command;
But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice,
Rather than such a victim!-(Trumpets.) Hark,
they come!

That music sounds not like thy lady's lute.

Gor. Yet shall my lady's name mix with it gayly. Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and cry, "Gordon!

Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth!"

[Exeunt. Loud alarum.

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You want no homeward guide; so threw my reins
Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose,
Within an hour he stands before my gate:
And Magdalen will need no other token
To bid the Melrose monks say masses for me.
Swin. Thou art resolved to cheat the halter,
then?
Hob Hat.
It is my purpose,
Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's death;
And never had 1 a more glorious chance for't.
Swin. Here lies the way to it, knave.—Make
in, make in,
And aid young Gordon!

[Exeunt. Loud and long alarums. After
which the back scene rises, and discovers
SWINTON on the ground, GORDON Sup
porting him; both much wounded.
Swin. All are cut down-the reapers have pass' d
o'er us,

Spur to the regent-show the instant need-
Gor. I penetrate thy purpose; but I go not.
Swin. Not at my bidding? I, thy sire in chival-There

ry

Thy leader in the battle?-I command thee.

Gor. 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 Scot-
land.

While I abide, no follower of mine

Will turn his rein for life; but were I gone,
What power can stay them? and, our band dis-
persed,

What sword shall for an instant stem yon host,
And save the latest chance for victory?

Vip. The noble youth speaks truth; and were

he gone,
There will not twenty spears be left with us.

Gor. No, bravely as we have begun the field,
o let us fight it out. The regent's eyes,
More certain than a thousand messages,
Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host
Against yon bursting storm. If not for honour,
If not for warlike rule, for shame at least,
He must bear down to aid us.

And hie to distant harvest. My toil's over;
lies my sickle, [dropping his sword,] hand
of mine again

Shall never, never wield it!

Gor. O valiant leader, is thy light extinguish'd!
That only beacon flame which promised safety
In this day's deadly wreck!

Swin. My lamp hath long been dim. But thine,
young Gordon,

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

Gor. Five thousand horse hung idly on yon hill,
Saw us o'erpowered, and no one stirr'd to aid us.
Swin. 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 coun-
try.

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!

Gor. Alas! Alas! the author of the death-feud,
He has his reckoning too! for had your sons
And numʼrous vassals liv'd, we had lack'd no sid

Swm. 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 whirlwind!

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 should'st thou share our punishment?

Gor. All need forgiveness-[distant alarums]Hark! in yonder shout

Did the main battles counter!

Swin. Look on the field, brave Gordon, if thou

canst,

And tell me how the day goes. But I guess,
Too surely do I guess-

Gor. 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.

Swin. 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!

[Dies. Gor. And, Swinton, I will think I do that duty To my dead father.

Enter DE VIPONT.

Vip. Fly, fly, brave youth! A handful of thy followers,

The scattered gleaning of this desperate day,
Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue.
O linger not!-I'll be your guide to them.

Gor. 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!

Vip. Swinton alas! the best, the bravest, strongest,

And sagest of our Scottish chivalry!
Forgive one moment, if to save the living,
My tongue should wrong the dead. Gordon, be-

think thee,

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

Gor. 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 trum-
pets.

Vip. Nay, without thee, I stir not.

Enter EDWARD, CHANDOS, PERCY, BALIOL, &c. Gor. 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.

King. 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? Chan. Here lies the giant! Say his name, young knight!

Gor. Let it suffice, he was a man this morning. Chan. I question'd thee in sport. I do not need Thy information, youth. Who that has fought Through all these Scottish wars, but knows that crest,

The sable boar chain'd to the leafy oak,

And that huge mace still seen where war was wildest.

Grim chamberlain, who in my tent at Weardale,
King. 'Tis Alan Swinton!
Stood by my startled couch with torch and mace,
When the black Douglas war-cry waked my camp.

Gor. (sinking down.) If thus thou know'st him, Thou wilt respect his corpse.

King. As belted knight and crowned king, I will
Gor. And let mine

Sleep at his side, in token that our death
Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gordon.
King. It is the Gordon!-Is there aught beside
Edward can do to honour bravery,
Even in an enemy?

Gor.

Nothing but this: Let not base Baliol, with his touch or look, Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've some breath still,

Enough to say-Scotland-Elizabeth! [Dies. Chan. Baliol, I would not brook such dying looks

To buy the crown you aim at.

King, (to VIPONT.) Vipont, thy crossed shield shows ill in warfare

Against a christian king.

Vip. That christian King is warring upon Scot

land.

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2. I was a Scotsman ere I was a templar.-P. 399. A Venetian general observing his soldiers testified some unwillingness to fight against those of the pope, whom they regarded as father of the church, addressed them in terms of similar en[He rushes on the English, but is couragement:-"Fight on! we were Venetians made prisoner with VIPONT. before we were christians."

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