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, As to a weak and timid boy 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, Do thou to yonder hill repair; The followers of our host are there, And all who may not weapons bear.- 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; 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! "My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade.- Like lightning on the advancing foe. My Liege," said noble Douglas then, I will not weaken mine array." Then loudly rose the conflict-cry, And Douglas's brave heart swell'd high,— 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 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. XIX. It was a night of lovely June, High rode in cloudless blue the moon, Demayet smiled beneath her ray; Old Stirling's towers arose in light, And, twined in links of silver bright, Her winding river lay. Ah, gentle planet! other sight Shall greet thee, next returning night, And piles of slaughter'd men and horse, And many a wounded wretch to plain But now, from England's host, the cry While from the Scottish legions pass The murmur'd prayer, the early mass ! Here, numbers had presumption given; There, bands o'er-match'd sought aid from Heaven. XX. On Gillie's-hill, whose height commands The battle-field, fair Edith stands, |