Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Each ordering that his band

Should bowne them with the rising day,

To Scotland’s camp to take their way -

Such was the King’s command.

XXIII

Early they took Dunedin’s road,

And I could trace each step they trode;

Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,

Lies on the path to me unknown.

Much might it boast of storied lore;

But, passing such digression o’er,

Suffice it that their route was laid

Across the furzy hills of Braid,

They passed the glen and scanty rill,

And climbed the opposing bank, until

They gained the top of Blackford Hill.

XXIV

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,

Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,

A truant-boy, I sought the nest,

Or listed, as I lay at rest,

While rose on breezes thin,

The murmur of the city crowd,

And, from his steeple jangling loud,

Saint Giles’s mingling din.

Now, from the summit to the plain,

Waves all the hill with yellow grain

And o’er the landscape as I look,

Nought do I see unchanged remain,

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.

To me they make a heavy moan,

Of early friendships past and gone.

XXV

But different far the change has been,

Since Marmion, from the crown

Of Blackford, saw that martial scene

Upon the bent so brown:

Thousand pavilions, white as snow,

Spread all the Borough Moor below,

Upland, and dale, and down:-

A thousand, did I say? I ween,

Thousands on thousands there were seen,

That chequered all the heath between

The streamlet and the town;

In crossing ranks extending far,

Forming a camp irregular;

Oft giving way, where still there stood

Some relics of the old oak wood,

That darkly huge did intervene,

And tamed the glaring white with green:

In these extended lines there lay

A martial kingdom’s vast array.

XXVI

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,

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.

Marmion might hear the mingled hum

Of myriads up the mountain come;

The horses’ tramp, and tingling clank,

Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank,

And charger’s shrilling neigh;

And see the shifting lines advance

While frequent flashed, from shield and lance,

The sun’s reflected ray.

XXVII

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare,

To embers now the brands decayed,

Where the nightwatch their fires had made.

They saw, slow rolling on the plain,

Full many a baggage-cart and wain,

And dire artillery’s clumsy car,

By sluggish oxen tugged to war;

And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven,

And culverins which France had given.

Ill-omened gift! the guns remain

The conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII

Nor marked 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-tailed, 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,

Pitched deeply in a massive stone -

Which still in memory is shown -

Yet bent beneath the standard’s weight

Whene’er the western wind unrolled,

With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,

And gave to view the dazzling field,

Where, in proud Scotland’s royal shield,

The ruddy lion ramped in gold.

XXIX

Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright -

He viewed it with a chief’s delight -

Until within him burned 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 Saint George, were that host mine,

Not power infernal, nor divine.

Should once to peace my soul incline,

Till I had dimmed their armour’s shine

In glorious battle-fray!”

Answered 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 blessed,

‘Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall.”

XXX

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed,

For fairer scene he ne’er surveyed.

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 kissed,

It gleamed a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;

Here Preston Bay and Berwick Law:

And, broad between them rolled,

The gallant Frith the eye might note,

Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chased in gold.

Fitz Eustace’ heart felt closely pent;

As if to give his rapture vent,

The spur he to his charger lent,

And raised his bridle hand,

And making demivolte in air,

Cried, “Where’s the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!”

The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;

Nor Marmion’s frown repressed his glee.

XXXI

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud,

Where mingled trump and clarion loud,

And fife and kettledrum,

And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

And war-pipe with discordant cry,

And cymbal clattering to the sky,

Making wild music bold and high,

Did up the mountain come;

The whilst the bells, with distant chime,

Merrily tolled the hour of prime,

And thus the Lindesay spoke:

“Thus clamour still the war-notes when

The King to mass his way has ta’en,

Or to St. Katharine’s of Sienne,

Or chapel of Saint Rocque.

To you they speak of martial fame;

But me remind of peaceful game,

When blither was their cheer,

Thrilling in Falkland woods the air,

In signal none his steed should spare,

But strive which foremost might repair

To the downfall of the deer.

XXXII

“Nor less,” he said, “when looking forth,

I view yon empress of the North

Sit on her hilly throne;

Her palace’s imperial bowers,

Her castle, proof to hostile powers,

Her stately halls and holy towers -

Nor less,” he said, “I moan,

To think what woe mischance may bring,

And how these merry bells may ring

The death-dirge of our gallant king;

Or with the ‘larum call

The burghers forth to watch and ward,

‘Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard

Dunedin’s leaguered wall.

But not for my presaging thought,