Here their conversation was interrupted.  By the King’s command, each train on the following day was to proceed by its own way to Scotland’s camp, near Edinburgh.  Early they set out for the moor surrounding the city, where lay the Scotch hosts.

From the crown of Blackford, Marmion gazed on the martial scene.  It was a Kingdom’s vast array.  Thousands on thousands of pavilions, white as snow, dotted the upland, dale, and down, and checkered the heath between town and forest.  The relics of the old oaks softened the glaring white with a background of restful green.

From north, from south, from east, from west, had gathered Scotland’s warriors.  All between the ages of sixteen and sixty, from king to vassal, stood ready to fight for the beloved land.  Marmion heard the mingled hum of myriads of voices float up the mountain side.  He saw the shifting lines, and marked the flashing of shield and lance.  Nor did he mark less that 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, there
       O’er the pavilions flew. 
     Highest and midmost, was descried
     The royal banner floating wide;
       The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
     Pitch’d deeply in a massive stone,
       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 ramped in gold.

“Lord Marmion view’d the landscape bright,—­
He viewed it with a chief’s delight,—­
Until within him burn’d his heart,
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 St. George, were that host mine,
Nor power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimmed their armor’s shine
In glorious battle-fray!’”

A bard near at hand replied: 

    “’Tis better to sit still, than rise, perchance to fall.”

From this scene of preparation for battle, their eyes wandered to the fairest scene of peace.  The distant city glowed in gloomy splendor.  The sun’s morning beams tinged turret and tower.  The wreaths of rising smoke turned to clouds of red and gold.  Dusky grandeur clothed the height where the huge castle stood in state.  Far to the north, ridge on ridge, rose the mountains, the rosy morning light bathing their sides in floods of sunshine, and turning each heather bell at their feet into an amethyst.  Yonder could be seen the shores of Fife, nearer Preston Bay and Berwick.  Between them rolled the broad Firth, islands floating on its bosom like emeralds on a chain of gold.