BANNOCKBURN.
215
High wax'd thy triumph, loud thy revels rose,
When England's warriors fled before their foes.
On, on they roll—the mean, the high, the proud,
Commingled all—one vast despairing crowd:
On, faster on, pursues the storm of war,
Swells in the gale, and thunders from afar.
Ten thousand arms upraised the blood-stain'd brand,
Ten thousand corses strew'd the loathing land:
O'erwhelm'd and trampled in the frantic flight,
Unnumber'd victims quit the realms of light.
A gallant host they cross'd the Scottish pale,
A shatter'd few return'd to tell the tale;
And far and wide was heralded the fame
Of Scotland's liberty, and England's shame.
Yet one there was,[1] a heart untaught to yield,
That ne'er had brook'd to turn from battle-field;
His king, his honour, claim'd his only care,
Death was his friend—he sought a triumph there.
His monarch safe, he check'd the foam-fleck'd rein,
And spurr'd his charger to the field again;
Bright flash'd his sword, and stream'd his helmet-plume,
As rush'd the warrior to the glorious doom.
One gallant cry he gave, one knightly blow,
Ere closed the flood around their lonely foe;
Awhile he reel'd, in strife convulsive tost,
Then slowly sank amid the whelming host.
The field was won—the pearly lamp of night
In heaven's high dome reveal'd her hallow'd light;
And trembling silence sought her tranquil throne,
Scared by the battle-din, the dying groan.
How changed the scene, since morn's betok'ning ray
With redd'ning hues proclaim'd the bursting day!
A rescued country greets the conqu'ring band,
One mighty rapture fills the mourning land;
When England's warriors fled before their foes.
On, on they roll—the mean, the high, the proud,
Commingled all—one vast despairing crowd:
On, faster on, pursues the storm of war,
Swells in the gale, and thunders from afar.
Ten thousand arms upraised the blood-stain'd brand,
Ten thousand corses strew'd the loathing land:
O'erwhelm'd and trampled in the frantic flight,
Unnumber'd victims quit the realms of light.
A gallant host they cross'd the Scottish pale,
A shatter'd few return'd to tell the tale;
And far and wide was heralded the fame
Of Scotland's liberty, and England's shame.
Yet one there was,[1] a heart untaught to yield,
That ne'er had brook'd to turn from battle-field;
His king, his honour, claim'd his only care,
Death was his friend—he sought a triumph there.
His monarch safe, he check'd the foam-fleck'd rein,
And spurr'd his charger to the field again;
Bright flash'd his sword, and stream'd his helmet-plume,
As rush'd the warrior to the glorious doom.
One gallant cry he gave, one knightly blow,
Ere closed the flood around their lonely foe;
Awhile he reel'd, in strife convulsive tost,
Then slowly sank amid the whelming host.
The field was won—the pearly lamp of night
In heaven's high dome reveal'd her hallow'd light;
And trembling silence sought her tranquil throne,
Scared by the battle-din, the dying groan.
How changed the scene, since morn's betok'ning ray
With redd'ning hues proclaim'd the bursting day!
A rescued country greets the conqu'ring band,
One mighty rapture fills the mourning land;
- ↑ Sir Giles d'Argentine.—Scott's History of Scotland.
