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A thousand did I say? I ween,

Thousands on thousands there were seen,

That chequered all the heath between

The streamlet and the town;

In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;

Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,

And tamed the glaring white with green:
In these extended lines there lay

A martial kingdom's vast array.

XXVI.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge,
To furthest 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 reviewed their vassal rank,
And charger's shrilling neigh;

And see the shifting lines advance,

While frequent flashed, from shield and lance,

The sun's reflected ray.

XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreaths of failing smoke declare,
To embers now the brands decayed,
Where the night-watch their fires had made,^
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,

By sluggish oxen tugged to war;

And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,*
By France's king to Scotland given.
Ill-omened gift! the guns remain

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain,

XXVIII.

Nor marked 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-tailed, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol,t there
O'er the pavilions flew.

Highest, and midmost, was descried
The royal banner, floating wide;

The staff, a pine-tree strong and straight,
Pitched deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard's weight,

* Seven culverins, so called, cast by one Borthwick.

Each of these feudal ensigns intimated the different rahk

of those entitled to display them.

Whene'er the western wind unrolled,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
The ruddy Lion ramped in gold.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright,
He viewed it with a chief's delight,-
Until within him burned his heart,
And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle day;

Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey.
"Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade

Were but a vain essay;

For, by Saint George, were that host mine,

Not power infernal, nor divine,

Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimmed their armour's shine,
In glorious battle fray!"-

Answered 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 blessed,

"Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise perchance to fall,"

XXX.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed,
For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red;

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!
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kissed,
It gleamed a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;
And, broad between them rolled,
The gallant Firth 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 bridal hand,
And, making demi-vault in air,

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

To fight for such a land!"

The Lion smiled his joy to see;

Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,

And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,

Did up the mountain come;

The whilst the bells, with distant chime,
Merrily tolled the hour of prime,
And thus the Lion spoke:-

"Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The King to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to St. Catherine's of Sienne,
Or chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame ;
But me remind of peaceful game,
When blither was their cheer,

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