And many a bearded Saracen

Went down, both horse and man;
For through their ranks we rode like corn,
So furiously we ran !

But in behind our path they closed,
Though fain to let us through,
For they were forty thousand men,
And we were wondrous few.

We might not see a lance's length,

So dense was their array,

But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade Still held them hard at bay.

"Make in! make in!" Lord Douglas cried"Make in, my brethren dear!

Sir William of St. Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!"

But thicker, thicker grew the swarm,
And sharper shot the rain,
And the horses reared amid the press.
But they would not charge again.

"Now Jesus help thee," said Lord James,
"Thou kind and true St. Clair!
And if I may not bring thee off,
I'll die beside thee there!"

Then in his stirrups up he stood,
So lion-like and bold,

And held the precious heart aloft,
All in its case of gold.

He flung it from him, far ahead,
And never spake he more,

But—“Pass thou first, thou dauntless heart,
As thou wert wont of yore !"

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
And heavier still the stour,

Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.

"Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly, o'er flood and fell—
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good knight, that fought so well?"
"O, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said,

"And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!

"There lies, above his master's heart,

The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him!

"The world grows cold, my arm is old,
And thin my lyart hair,

And all that I loved best on earth
Is stretched before me there.

"O Bothwell banks, that bioom so bright
Beneath the sun of May!

The heaviest cloud that ever blew,
Is bound for you this day.

"And Scotland! thou mayst veil thy head
In sorrow and in pain,

The sorest stroke upon thy brow

Hath fallen this day in Spain!

"We'll bear them back unto our ship,
We'll bear them o'er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth
Within our own countrie.

And be thou strong of heart, Lord King,
. For this I tell thee sure,

The sod that drank the Douglas' blood

Shall never bear the Moor!"

The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,

And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.

"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain;
I'd rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!"

We bore the good Lord James away,
And the priceless heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.

No welcome greeted our return,
Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The heart in fair Melrose ;
And woful men were we that day-
God grant their souls repose!

WILLIAM EDMUNDSTONE AYTOUN.

HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.

IS puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack

Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancor of its edge had felt;

For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, it was so manful;
And so much scorned to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.

This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs unto knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabbed or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care;
'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so-forth :
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

FLODDEN FIELD.

[The battle was fought in September, 1513, between the forces of England and Scotland. The latter were worsted, and King James slain with eight thousand of his men. Lord Surrey commanded the English troops.]

a

MOMENT then Lord Marmion stayed,

And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
Then forward inoved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,

He halted by a cross of stone,
That on a hillock standing lone,

Did all the field command.

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host for deadly fray;

Their marshalled lines stretched east and west,
And fronted north and south,

And distant salutation past

From the loud cannon-mouth;
Not in the close successive rattle

That breathes the voice of modern battle,
But slow and far between.-

The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed: "Here, by this cross," he gently said,

"You well may view the scene;
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare :
O, think of Marmion in thy prayer !—
Thou wilt not?-well-no less my care
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare-
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,
With ten picked archers of my train;
With England if the day go hard,
To Berwick speed amain-

But, if we conquer, cruel maid,

My spoils shall at your feet be laid,
When here we meet again."

He waited not for answer there,
And would not mark the maid's despair,
Nor heed the discontented look
From either squire; but spurred amain,
And, dashing through the battle-plain,
His way to Surrey took.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;

On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view:
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.-
But, see! look up-on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times their warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come-
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.

They close in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;

And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth

And fiends in upper air:

O, life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,

And triumph and despair.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness naught descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mangled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the bright sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave
Floating like foam upon the wave;

But naught distinct they see :

Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;

Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high

They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntley and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broadsword plied,
'T was vain :—but fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard's lion fell;

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle-yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky!

A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced-forced back-now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose ;'

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear :-
"By heaven and all its saints, I swear,
I will not see it lost!
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer-
I gallop to the host."

And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.

The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large-
The rescued banner rose,

But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too;-yet stayed,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,

When, fast as shaft can fly,
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone:
Perchance her reason stoops or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.-
The scattered van of England wheels;-
She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"-
They fly, or, maddened by despair,
Fight but to die-"Is Wilton there?"
With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion! .
Young Blount his armor did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said—“By St. George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped-
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good-night to Marmion."—
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes," said Eustace, "peace!"

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :-
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!
Redeem my pennon-charge again!
Cry-' Marmion to the rescue !'-vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!—
Yet my last thought is England's :—fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:
Tell him his squadrons up to bring :—
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;

Trunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down;-my life is reft ;-
The Admiral alone is left,

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire-
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,

Or victory and England's lost.

Must I bid twice?-hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."
They parted, and alone he lay :

Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured-"Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring,
Of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst?"

O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!

Scarce were the pitying accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran;
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,

Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountain's side,
Where waged the war, a dark-red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn! behold her mark
A little fountain cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
'Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray
For the kind soul of Sybil Grey,

Who built this cross and well."
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?"

Then, as remembrance rose'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words are mine to spare ; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"

"Alas!" she said, "the while

O, think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;

She died at Holy Isle."

Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!" he said,-"I knew
That the dark presage must be true.—
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be !-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,

And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labor, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,

A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung :

"Avoid thee, fiend !—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine:
O, think on faith and bliss :-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry:—-

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand above his head
He took the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!"-
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.