Enter SWINTON and GORDON.
Pitch down my pennon in yon holly-bush.
Mine in the thorn beside it; let them wave,
As fought this morn their masters, side by side.
Let the men rally, and restore their ranks
Here in 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 vanguard;
Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew him,
And by that token bid him send us succour.
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. -Harkye, grooms!
[To those behind the scenes. Why do you let my noble steed stand stiffening After so hot a course?
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?
It is because I hold a Templar's sword
Wet to the cross'd hilt with Christian blood.
The blood of English archers-what can gild
A Scottish blade more bravely?
Even therefore grieve I for those gallant yeomen,
England's peculiar and appropriate sons,
Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth
And field as free as the best lord his barony,
Owing subjection to no human vassalage,
Save to their King and law. Hence are they resolute,
Leading the van on every day of battle,
As men who know the blessings they defend.
Vipont, do thou look out from yonder height,
And see what motion in the Scottish host,
And in King Edward's.-
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?
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 wouldst thou now know hers?
Thy father in the paths of chivalry
Should know the load-star thou dost rule thy course by.
Nay, then, her name is-hark
I know it well, that ancient northern house.
O, thou shalt see its fairest grace and honour
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch thee-
It did, before disasters had untuned me.
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 soothe to sadness; she can touch each mood.
Princes and statesmen, chiefs renown'd in arms,
And grey-hair'd bards, contend which shall the first
And choicest homage render to th' enchantress.
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,
List'ning her harping!—
[Enter VIPONT. Where are thine, De Vipont?
On death-on judgment-
-on eternity!
For time is over with us.
There moves not, then, one pennon to our aid,
Of all that flutter yonder !
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.
n Selby's headlong charge
ne down, Sir Alan smote him.
telet, never nutshell matertorers.-Harkye, grooms!
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