-on Flodden bent

No hope of gilded spurs to-day.
But, see! look up,
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.

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.

The Border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced, forced back, now low, now night,
The pennon sunk and rose ;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,

It wavered mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear:
"By heaven and all its saints, I swear,
I will not see it lost!
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer,
I gallop to the host."
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,

The rescued banner rose,

-

When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast, To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.

Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone : Perchance her reason stoops or reels; Perchance a courage, not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone. The scattered van of England wheels; She only said, as loud in air

The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?". They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die, "Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!..
Young Blount his armor did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said,- By St. George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped, -
And see the deep cut on his head !
Good night to Marmion."-
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; peace!"

vain!

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare !
Redeem my pennon, - charge again!
Cry Marmion to the rescue!'.
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Yet my last thought is England's :- fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:
Tell him his squadrons up to bring:-
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;

Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down ; my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,

O woman in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!-

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran;
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue, Where shall she turn! - behold her mark A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,

In a stone basin fell.

As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!" he said, "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be ! this dizzy trance,
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

So the notes rung:

"Avoid thee, Fiend! - with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!

O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine:
O, think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry :-
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye :
With dying hand above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted "Victory!—

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE HEART OF THE BRUCE.

Ir was upon an April morn,
While yet the frost lay hoar,
We heard Lord James's bugle-horn
Sound by the rocky shore.

Then down we went, a hundred knights,

All in our dark array,

And flung our armor in the ships
That rode within the bay.

We spoke not as the shore grew less,
But gazed in silence back,
Where the long billows swept away
The foam behind our track.

And aye the purple hues decayed Upon the fading hill,

And but one heart in all that ship Was tranquil, cold, and still.

392

And many a bearded Saracen

Went down, both horse and man;

For through their ranks we rode like corn, So furiously we ran !

But in behind our path they closed, Though fain to let us through, For they were forty thousand men, And we were wondrous few.

We might not see a lance's length,

So dense was their array,

But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade Still held them hard at bay.

"Make in! make in!" Lord Douglas cried, "Make in, my brethren dear!

Sir William of St. Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!".

But thicker, thicker grew the swarm,
And sharper shot the rain,
And the horses reared amid the press,
But they would not charge again.

"Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James,
"Thou kind and true St. Clair!
An' if I may not bring thee off,
I'll die beside thee there!"

Then in his stirrups up he stood,
So lion-like and bold,

And held the precious heart aloft
All in its case of gold.

He flung it from him, far ahead,”
And never spake he more,
But-Pass thou first, thou dauntless heart,
As thou wert wont of yore !"

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,

And Ireavier still the stour,

Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.

"Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly o'er flood and fell,
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good knight, that fought so well?"

"O, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said,
"And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!

"There lies, above his master's heart,

The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here,

Not side by side with him!

"The world grows cold, my arm is old, And thin my lyart hair,

And all that I loved best on earth

Is stretched before me there.

"O Bothwell banks! that bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May,

The heaviest cloud that ever blew
Is bound for you this day.

"And Scotland! thou mayst veil thy head In sorrow and in pain:

The sorest stroke upon thy brow
Hath fallen this day in Spain !

"We'll bear them back unto our ship,
We'll bear them o'er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth
Within our own countrie.

"And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, For this I tell thee sure,

The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
Shall never bear the Moor!"

The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.

"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain;
I'd rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!"

We bore the good Lord James away,
And the priceless heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.

No welcome greeted our return,
Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The heart in fair Melrose ;
And woful men were we that day,
God grant their souls repose!

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil.