Marmion

Their front now deepening, now extending; 
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
Now drawing back, and now descending, 
The skilful Marmion well could know, 
They watch’d the motions of some foe, 
Who traversed on the plain below.

XIX.

Even so it was.  From Flodden ridge 
  The Scots beheld the English host  
  Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, 
  And heedful watch’d them as they cross’d 
The Till by Twisel Bridge.

  High sight it is, and haughty, while 
  They dive into the deep defile;      
  Beneath the cavern’d cliff they fall, 
  Beneath the castle’s airy wall.

By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, 
  Troop after troop are disappearing; 
  Troop after troop their banners rearing, 
Upon the eastern bank you see.

Still pouring down the rocky den, 
  Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
Standards on standards, men on men, 
  In slow succession still, 
And, sweeping o’er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 
  To gain the opposing hill.

That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
Twisel! thy rock’s deep echo rang; 
And many a chief of birth and rank, 
Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.

Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,             
Had then from many an axe its doom, 
To give the marching columns room.

XX.

And why stands Scotland idly now, 
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, 
Since England gains the pass the while, 
And struggles through the deep defile?

What checks the fiery soul of James? 
Why sits that champion of the dames 
  Inactive on his steed, 
And sees, between him and his land, 
Between him and Tweed’s southern strand, 
  His host Lord Surrey lead? 
What ‘vails the vain knight-errant’s brand?? 
O, Douglas, for thy leading wand! 
  Fierce Randolph, for thy speed! 

O for one hour of Wallace wight, 
Or well-skill’d Bruce, to rule the fight, 
And cry-‘Saint Andrew and our right!’ 

Another sight had seen that morn, 
From Fate’s dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!-

The precious hour has pass’d in vain, 
And England’s host has gain’d the plain;

Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
Around the base of Flodden hill.