XXV.
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lount and Fitz-Eustace rested stillWith Lady Clare upon the hill;On which, for far the day was spent,The western sunbeams now were bent.The cry they heard, its meaning knew,Could plain their distant comrades view:Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,“Unworthy office here to stay!No hope of gilded spurs to-day.But see! look up—on Flodden bentThe 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 aloneAt times one warning trumpet blown,At times a stifled hum,Told England, from his mountain-throneKing James did rushing 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;Oh, life and death were in the shout,Recoil and rally, charge and rout,And triumph and despair.Long looked the anxious squires; their eyeCould in the darkness nought descry.
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