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 shifting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, For flashing on the hedge of spears The eastern sunbeam shines. 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 pass 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 passed in vain, And England's host has gained the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden hill.