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By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor: vaward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home ?
O for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died ! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again,
While yet on Flodden side,
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!
In vain the wish—for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.---
“0, Lady,” cried the Monk, “ away!"-
And placed her on her steed;
And led her to the chapel fair,
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And, at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
But as they left the dark’ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in vollies hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep,
That fought around their king.
But yet, though thick the shafts as show,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,.
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring ;
Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.
No thought was there of dastard flight ;-
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well;
Till utter darkness closed her wing
O’er their thin host and wounded king..
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands ;
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low,
They melted from the field as snow,
When streams are swoln and south winds blow,
Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
Disordered, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song, Shall many an age that wail prolong: Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shjeld!
. XXXVI. Day dawns upon the mountain's side :There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one ; The sad survivors all are gone.View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high :
Look northward with upbraiding eye;.
Nor cherish hope in vain, :...
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land...
May yet return again.,'
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;.
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,
And fell on Flodden plain :
And well in death his-trusty brand,
Firm clenched within his manly hand,
Beseemed the monarch slain.
But, O! how changed since yon blithe night!-..
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.
Short is my tale :-Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle,