BANNOCKBURN.
213
The wind scarce breathed its melancholy moan.
Another day—'twas fraught with dying groan;
For England's hosts, and Scotland's patriot band,
In deathly struggle trod that fated land.
—As black'ning tempests meet at close of day,
So met the foes, 'neath evening's mellow'd ray;
Yet night's all-spreading shade could scarce restrain
The martial fire that throbb'd in ev'ry vein;
And ere her solitary hours had sped,
The brave De Bohun stain'd a gory bed.
The day has dawn'd—the clarion's madd'ning sound,
From line to line proclaims the summons round;
The Douglas springs exulting from his rest,
Loud throbs the heart in Randolph's martial breast;
The quiv'ring war-steed hears the noted strain,
And feels the wonted fire in ev'ry vein;
The glitt'ring falchions flash the pending doom,
As bursts the lightning from the tempest-gloom;
Pennon and banner float along the plain,
Plume nods to plume, and strain responds to strain.
Swift as the phantoms of a fairy wand,
In serried ranks the marshall'd armies stand;
A moment more, and England's proud array,
Like surging wave, rolls onward to the fray:
But ere they close, o'er Scotland's tartan'd bands,
The holy abbot spreads his sacred hands;
With helmet doff'd her rev'rent warriors kneel,
And breathe a fervent pray'r for Scotland's weal:—
'Tis done, 'tis done! the death-fraught words resound,
And death's dark banner wildly waves around.
Vain were the task for mortal eye to glean
The crowding horrors of the battle-scene:
Now madly onward swells the living main,
Now back recoils along the thund'ring plain;
Surge follows surge across th' affrighted strand,
And strews a ghastly wreck along the land.
Another day—'twas fraught with dying groan;
For England's hosts, and Scotland's patriot band,
In deathly struggle trod that fated land.
—As black'ning tempests meet at close of day,
So met the foes, 'neath evening's mellow'd ray;
Yet night's all-spreading shade could scarce restrain
The martial fire that throbb'd in ev'ry vein;
And ere her solitary hours had sped,
The brave De Bohun stain'd a gory bed.
The day has dawn'd—the clarion's madd'ning sound,
From line to line proclaims the summons round;
The Douglas springs exulting from his rest,
Loud throbs the heart in Randolph's martial breast;
The quiv'ring war-steed hears the noted strain,
And feels the wonted fire in ev'ry vein;
The glitt'ring falchions flash the pending doom,
As bursts the lightning from the tempest-gloom;
Pennon and banner float along the plain,
Plume nods to plume, and strain responds to strain.
Swift as the phantoms of a fairy wand,
In serried ranks the marshall'd armies stand;
A moment more, and England's proud array,
Like surging wave, rolls onward to the fray:
But ere they close, o'er Scotland's tartan'd bands,
The holy abbot spreads his sacred hands;
With helmet doff'd her rev'rent warriors kneel,
And breathe a fervent pray'r for Scotland's weal:—
'Tis done, 'tis done! the death-fraught words resound,
And death's dark banner wildly waves around.
Vain were the task for mortal eye to glean
The crowding horrors of the battle-scene:
Now madly onward swells the living main,
Now back recoils along the thund'ring plain;
Surge follows surge across th' affrighted strand,
And strews a ghastly wreck along the land.
