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Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray.
Oh, lady," cried the monk, "away!"
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair,

Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hail'd,
In headlong charge their horse assail'd;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their king.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,

Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spearmen still make good
Their dark, impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight :
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well;

Till utter darkness closed her wing

O'er their thin host and wounded king.

Then skilful Surrey's sage

commands

Led back from strife his shatter'd bands;

And from the charge they drew,

As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.

Then did their loss his foemen know;

Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,

They melted from the field as snow,

When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
Disorder'd, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land;

To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong :
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear,
Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield !

Day dawns upon the mountain's side:
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles many a one :
The sad survivers all are gone.
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be ;
Nor to yon Border castle high,
Look northward with upbraiding eye;
Nor cherish hope in vain,

That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The royal pilgrim to his land

May yet return again.

He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,

And fell on Flodden plain :
And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clinch'd within his manly hand,
Beseem'd the monarch slain.

THE LANDING OF THE BRITISH TROOPS IN SPAIN IN 1809. AFAR was heard that thrice-repeated cry,

In which old Albion's heart and tongue unite, Whene'er her soul is up and pulse beats high,

Whether it hail the winecup or the fight, [light. And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout grew loud: A varied scene the changeful vision show'd; For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud, A gallant navy stemm'd the billows broad. From mast and stern St. George's symbol flow'd, Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear; Mottling the sea, their landward barges row'd,

And flash'd the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach return'd the seaman's jovial cheer.

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!

The billows foam'd beneath a thousand oars; Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions bright'ning all the shores. Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars, Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,

And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb, For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of ocean come!

A various host they come, whose ranks display Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight; The deep battalion locks its firm array,

And meditates his aim the marksman light; Far glance the light of sabres flashing bright, Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead,

Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night, Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by rapid steed, That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed.

A various host, from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown;
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,

And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, And hers their scorn of death in Freedom's

cause;

Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, ind freeborn thoughts, which league the soldier with the laws.

And, oh! loved warriors of the minstrel's land! Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave, As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,

And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stay'd!

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him And moves to death with military glee: [flings, Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free, In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough Nature's children, humorous as she:

And he, yon chieftain-strike the proudest tone Of thy bold harp, green isle !—the hero is thine own.

SONG.

THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,

My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary!

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ;
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught,
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,

To my young bride and me, Mary!

SONG.

Nor faster yonder rowers' might,
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright,
That tracks the shallop's course in light,
Melts in the lake away,

Than men from memory erase

The benefits of former days;

Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,

Nor think again of the lonely isle.

High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battle line,

Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport,
Where beauty sees the brave resort,

The honour'd meed be thine!