* * * * *

  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 mingled spears
  Above the brightened cloud appears;
  And in the smoke the pennons flew,
  As in the storm the white 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,
  ’Twas vain:—­But Fortune, on the right,
  With fickle smile, cheered Scotland’s fight.