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! Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose."-The Earl his visor closed and said, "My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade. Follow, my household!"-And they go Like lightning on the advancing foe.

My Liege," said noble Douglas then,
"Earl Randolph has but one to ten:
Let me go forth his band to aid!"-
-"Stir not. The error he hath made,
Let him amend it as he may;

I will not weaken mine array.'
Then loudly rose the conflict-cry,
And Douglas's brave heart swelled high,--
"My Liege," he said, "with patient ear
I must not Moray's death-knell hear!"-
"Then go, but speed thee back again."
Forth sprung the Douglas with his train :
But, when they won a rising hill,
He bade his followers hold them still.-
"See, see! the routed Southerns 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
The fame we come too late to share."
Back to the host the Douglas rode,
And soon glad tidings are abroad,
That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain,
His followers fled with loosened rein.-
That skirmish closed the busy day,
And couched 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,
Of broken arms and banners tore,
And marshes dark with human gore,
And piles of slaughtered men and horse,
And Forth that floats the frequent corse,
And many a wounded wretch to plain
Beneath thy silver light in vain!

But now, from England's host, the cry
Thou hear'st of wassail revelry,
While from the Scottish legions pass
The murmured prayer, the early mass !-
Here, numbers had presumption given;

There, bands o'ermatched sought aid from Heaven.

XX.

On Gillie's-hill, whose height commands

The battle-field, fair Edith stands,
With serf and page unfit for war,
To eye the conflict from afar.
O! with what doubtful agony
She sees the dawning tint the sky!-
Now on the Ochils gleams the sun,
And glistens now Demayet dun;
Is it the lark that carols shrill,
Is it the bittern's early hum?
No!-distant, but increasing still,
The trumpet's sound swells up the hill,
With the deep murmur of the drum.
Responsive from the Scottish host,
Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were tossed,
His breast and brow each soldier crossed,
And started from the ground;
Armed and arrayed for instant fight,
Rose archer, spearman, squire, and knight,
And in the pomp of battle bright
The dread battalia frowned.

XXI.

Now onward, and in open view,

The countless ranks of England drew,

Dark rolling like the ocean-tide,

When the rough west hath chafed his pride
And his deep roar sends challenge wide
To all that bars his way!

In front the gallant archers trode,
The men-at-arms behind them rode,
And midmost of the phalanx broad
The Monarch held his sway.
Beside him many a war-horse fumes,
Around him waves a sea of plumes,
Where many a knight in battle known,
And some who spurs had first braced on,
And deemed that fight should see them won,
King Edward's hests obey.

De Argentine attends his side,

With stout De Valence, Pembroke's pride,
Selected champions from the train,

To wait upon his bridle-rein.

Upon the Scottish foe he gazed-
-At once, before his sight amazed,

Sunk banner, spear, and shield;

Each weapon-point is downward sent,

Each warrior to the ground is bent.
66 The rebels, Argentine, repent!

For pardon they have kneeled.".
"Ay!--but they bend to other powers,
And other pardon sue than ours!
See where yon bare-foot Abbot stands,
And blesses them with lifted hands!
Upon the spot where they have kneeled
These men will die, or win the field."-
"Then prove we if they die or win!
Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin.".

XXII.

Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high,
Just as the Northern ranks arose,

Signal for England's archery

To halt and bend their bows. Then stepped each yeoman forth a pace, Glanced at the intervening space, And raised his left hand high; To the right ear the cords they bring-At once ten thousand bowstrings ring, Ten thousand arrows fly! Nor paused on the devoted Scot The ceaseless fury of their shot; As fiercely and as fast

Forth whistling came the grey-goose wing
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring
Adown December's blast.

Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide,
Nor Lowland mail, that storm may bide;
Woe, woe to Scotland's bannered pride,
If the fell shower may last!
Upon the right, behind the wood,
Each by his steed dismounted, stood
The Scottish chivalry ;-

With foot in stirrup, hand on mane,
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain
His own keen heart, his eager train,
Until the archers gained the plain;

Then, "Mount ye gallants free!" He cried; and, vaulting from the ground, His saddle every horseman found. On high their glittering crests they toss, As springs the wild-fire from the moss; The shield hangs down on every breast, Each ready lance is in the rest,

And loud shouts Edward Bruce."Forth, Marshal, on the peasant foe! We'll tame the terrors of their bow, And cut the bowstring loose!"

XXIII.

Then spurs were dashed in chargers' flanks, They rushed among the archer ranks.

No spears were there the shock to let,
No stakes to turn the charge were set,
And how shall yeomen's armour slight
Stand the long lance and mace of might?
Or what may their short swords avail,
'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail?
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung,
High o'er their heads the weapons swung,
And shriek and groan and vengeful shout
Give note of triumph and of rout!
A while, with stubborn hardihood,
Their English hearts the strife made good;
Borne down at length on every side,
Compelled to flight, they scatter wide.--
Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee,
And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee!
The broken bows of Bannock's shore
Shall in the greenwood ring no more!
Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now
The maids may twine the summer bough,
May northward look with longing glance,
For those that wont to lead the dance,
For the blithe archers look in vain!
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en,

Pierced through, trode down, by thousands slain, They cumber Bannock's bloody plain.

XXIV.

The King with scorn beheld their flight.
"Are these," he said, "our yeomen wight?
Each braggart churl could boast before,
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore!
Fitter to plunder chase or park,
Than make a manly foe their mark.-
Forward, each gentleman and knight!
Let gentle blood show generous might,
And chivalry redeem the fight!"—
To rightward of the wild affray,
The field showed fair and level way;

But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care
Had bored the ground with many a pit,
With turf and brushwood hidden yet,
That formed a ghastly snare.
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came,
With spears in rest and hearts on flame,
That panted for the shock!

With blazing crests and banners spread,
And trumpet clang and clamour dread,
The wide plain thundered to their tread,
As far as Stirling rock.

Down! down! in headlong overthrow,
Horsemen and horse, the foremost go,
Wild floundering on the field!
The first are in destruction's gorge,