XXVI.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 535
To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,
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. 540
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; 545
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flash’d, from shield and lance,
  The sun’s reflected ray.

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. 
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery’s clumsy car, 555
By sluggish oxen tugg’d to war;
And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven,
And culverins which France had given. 
Ill-omen’d gift! the guns remain
The conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain. 560

XXVIII.

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, 575
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 chiefs delight,—­ 580
  Until within him burn’d 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. 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, 595
  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.’