But, till more near the shock of fight, A diadem of gold was set Above his bright steel bassinet, And clasp'd within its glittering twine He ranged his soldiers for the fight, Of either host.-Three bowshots far, And rested on their arms awhile, To close and rank their warlike file, And hold high council, if that night Should view the strife, or dawning light. XIV. O gay, yet fearful to behold, Flashing with steel and rough with gold, And bristled o'er with bills and spears, With plumes and pennons waving fair, Could then his direful doom foretell! Fair was his seat in knightly selle, And in his sprightly eye was set Some spark of the Plantagenet. Though light and wandering was his glance, It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. "Know'st thou," he said, " De Argentine, Yon knight who marshals thus their line?" "The tokens on his helmet tell The Bruce, my Liege: I know him well." "And shall the audacious traitor brave The presence where our banners wave ?"— "So please my Liege," said Argentine, "Were he but horsed on steed like mine, To give him fair and knightly chance, I would adventure forth my lance." "In battle-day," the King replied, "Nice tourney rules are set aside. -Still must the rebel dare our wrath? Set on him sweep him from our path !"- Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. XV. Of Hereford's high blood he came, A race renown'd for knightly fame. He burn'd before his Monarch's eye To do some deed of chivalry. He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his lance, And darted on the Bruce at once. -As motionless as rocks, that bide The wrath of the advancing tide, The Bruce stood fast.-Each breast beat high, And dazzled was each gazing eye The heart had hardly time to think, The eye-lid scarce had time to wink, While on the King, like flash of flame, Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear. His course-but soon his course was o'er ! High in his stirrups stood the King, And gave his battle-axe the swing. Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, Such strength upon the blow was put, The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut; The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp, Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. Springs from the blow the startled horse, Drops to the plain the lifeless corse; XVI. One pitying glance the Monarch sped, Where on the field his foe lay dead ; 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 And hides her blushes with her hands. |