Marmion

Broad, narrow, swallow-tail’d, 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, 
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, 
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,-             
  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.        

‘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,               
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, 
  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.’

XXX.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay’d, 
For fairer scene he ne’er survey’d.

  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 kiss’d, 
It gleam’d a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; 
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law; 
  And, broad between them roll’d, 
The gallant Frith the eye might note,  
Whose islands on its bosom float, 
  Like emeralds chased in gold.