Lyra Heroica Part 17

LIV

LOCHINVAR

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, ''Twere better by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cann.o.bie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

_Scott._

LV

FLODDEN

THE MARCH

Next morn the Baron climbed the tower, To view afar the Scottish power Encamped on Flodden edge: The white pavilions made a show, Like remnants of the winter snow, Along the dusky ridge.

Long Marmion looked: at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the s.h.i.+fting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, For flas.h.i.+ng on the hedge of spears The eastern sunbeam s.h.i.+nes.

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

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel bridge.

High sight it is and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned 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 rocks 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.

And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, Since England gains the pa.s.s 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-skilled 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 Bannockburn!

The precious hour has pa.s.sed in vain, And England's host has gained the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden hill.

THE ATTACK

'But see! look up--on Flodden bent 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 fast, 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 one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rus.h.i.+ng come.

Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, Until at weapon-point they close.

They close in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth And fiends in upper air; O life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And first the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears; And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew.

Then marked they, das.h.i.+ng broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought 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 Badenoch-man, And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntly and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied.

'Twas vain: but Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight.

Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky!

A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced, forced back, now low, now high, The pennon sank and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered 'mid the foes.

THE LAST STAND

By this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their King, Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.

Where's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntly, and where Home?

O for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, That to King Charles did come, When Roland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again, While yet on Flodden side Afar the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies Our Caledonian pride!

But as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death.

The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlong charge their horse a.s.sailed; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep That fought around their King.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like n.o.ble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded King.

Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue.

Then did their loss his foemen know; Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to town and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail.

Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong: Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife and carnage drear Of Flodden's fatal field, Where s.h.i.+vered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her s.h.i.+eld!

_Scott._