The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, Upon the Earl's own favourite steed; All sheathed he was in armour bright, And much resembled that same knight, Subdued by you in Cotswold fight: Lord Angus wished him speed." The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, But living man of earthly mould.- O dotage blind and gross! Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust, My path no more to cross.— How stand we now?-he told his tale To Douglas; and with some avail; "Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow. Will Surrey dare to entertain, 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain ? Small risk of that, I trow.— Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun; O what a tangled web we weave, I felt rebuked beneath his eye: I might have known there was but one, Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." XVIII. Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their march. (There now is left but one frail arch, Yet mourn thou not its cells; Our time a fair exchange has made; Hard by, in hospitable shade, A reverend pilgrim dwells, Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) To view afar the Scottish power, Encamped on Flodden edge: The white pavilions made a show, Like remnants of the winter snow, Along the dusky ridge. Long Marmion looked:-at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, For, flashing on the hedge of spears, The eastern sun-beam shines. Their front now deepening, now extending; Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, The skilful Marmion well could know, They watched the motions of some foe, Who traversed on the plain below. .XIX. Even so it was;-from Flodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, Troop after troop are disappearing ; Troop after troop their banners rearing, Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den, Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill. That morn, to many a trumpet-clang, And many a chief of birth and rank, Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room. XX. And why stands Scotland idly now, Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed's southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead? |