XXV.

But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,

520

And from the southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge:

From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come;
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank,
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank,
And charger's shrilling neigh;

And see the shifting lines advance,

While frequent flash'd, from shield and lance,

The sun's reflected ray.

540

545

XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare

550

To embers now the brands decay'd,

Where the night-watch their fires had made.

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;

Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square,

565

Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there

O'er the pavilions flew.

Highest, and midmost, was descried

The royal banner floating wide;

The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,

570

Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,

Which still in memory is shown,

Yet bent beneath the standard's weight

Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,

With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,

And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,

The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,
He view'd it with a chief's delight,-

Until within him burn'd his heart,

575

580

Such glance did falcon never dart,

And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle-day;

When stooping on his prey.

585

'Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,

Thy King from warfare to dissuade

Were but a vain essay:

For, by St. George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal, nor divine,

590

Should once to peace my soul incline,

Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine

In glorious battle-fray!'

Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood:

'Fair is the sight, and yet 'twere good,

That Kings would think withal,

When peace and wealth their land has bless'd,

'Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall.'

XXX.

595

For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed,

And tinged them with a lustre proud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge Castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down,
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town!

610

615

But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;

And, broad between them roll'd,
The gallant Frith the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,
Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,
The spur he to his charger lent,

And raised his bridle hand,

620

625

630

And, making demi-volte in air,

Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!'

The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;

635

Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,

Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,

And fife, and kettle-drum,

The King to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to Saint Katharine's of Sienne,

650

Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame ;
But me remind of peaceful game,

When blither was their cheer,
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,
In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfall of the deer.

XXXII.

655

'Nor less,' he said, 'when looking forth, I view yon Empress of the North

660

The death-dirge of our gallant King;
Or with the larum call

That England's dames must weep in bower,
Her monks the death-mass sing;

680

For never saw'st thou such a power

Led on by such a King.'

And now, down winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain,
And there they made a stay.—
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,

685

And fit his harp the pomp to sing,

Of Scotland's ancient Court and King,
In the succeeding lay.

690