XXXII.
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Nor less,” he said, “when looking forth,I view yon empress of the NorthSit 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 ringThe death-dirge of our gallant king;Or with the ’larum callThe burghers forth to watch and ward,’Gainst Southern sack and fires to guardDunedin’s leaguered wall.But not for my presaging thought,Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!Lord Marmion, I say nay:God is the guider of the field,He breaks the champion’s spear and shield—But thou thyself shalt say,When joins yon host in deadly stowre,That England’s dames must weep in bower,Her monks the death-mass sing;For never saw’st thou such a powerLed on by such a king.”And now, down winding to the plain,The barriers of the camp they gain,And there they made a stay.There stays the minstrel, till he flingHis hand o’er every Border string,And fit his harp the pomp to sing,Of Scotland’s ancient court and king,In the succeeding lay.
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