<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519711" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lord of the Isles: Canto VI.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>O who, that shared them, ever shall forget<br>The emotions of the spirit-rousing time,<br>When breathless in the mart the couriers met,<br>Early and late, at evening and at prime;<br>When the loud cannon and the merry chime<br>Hail'd news on news, as field on field was won,<br>When Hope, long doubtful, soar'd at length sublime,<br>And our glad eyes, awake as day begun, <br>Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet the rising sun!<br>O these were hours, when thrilling joy repaid<br>A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears!<br>The heart-sick faintness of the hope delay'd,<br>The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and the tears,<br>That track'd with terror twenty rolling years,<br>All was forgot in that blithe jubilee!<br>Her downcast eye even pale Affliction rears,<br>To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the glee,<br>That hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace and liberty!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such news o'er Scotland's hills triumphant rode,<br>When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the battle's scale,<br>When Bruce's banner had victorious flow'd<br>O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's vale;<br>And fiery English blood oft deluged Douglas-dale,<br>And fiery Edward routed stout St. John,<br>When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the southern gale,<br>And many a fortress, town, and tower, was won,<br>And fame still sounded forth fresh deeds of glory done.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower,<br>To peasant's cot, to forest-bower,<br>And waked the solitary cell,<br>Where lone Saint Bride's recluses dwell.<br>Princess no more, fair Isabel,<br>A vot'ress of the order now,<br>Say, did the rule that bid thee wear<br>Dim veil and wollen scapulare,<br>And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair,<br>That stern and rigid vow,<br>Did it condemn the transport high,<br>Which glisten'd in thy watery eye,<br>When minstrel or when palmer told<br>Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold?-<br>And whose the lovely form, that shares<br>Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers?<br>No sister she of convent shade;<br>So say these locks in lengthen'd braid,<br>So say the blushes and the sighs,<br>The tremors that unbidden rise,<br>When, mingled with the Bruce's fame,<br>The brave Lord Ronald's praises came.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>Believe, his father's castle won,<br>And his bold enterprise begun,<br>That Bruce's earliest cares restore<br>The speechless page to Arran's shore:<br>Nor think that long the quaint disguise<br>Conceal'd her from a sister's eyes;<br>And sister-like in love they dwell<br>In that lone convent's silent cell.<br>There Bruce's slow assent allows<br>Fair Isabel the veil and vows;<br>And there, her sex's dress regain'd,<br>The lovely Maid of Lorn remain'd,<br>Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland far<br>Resounded with the din of war;<br>And many a month, and many a day,<br>In calm seclusion wore away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>These days, these months, to years had worn,<br>When tidings of high weight were borne<br>To that lone island's shores;<br>Of all the Scottish conquests made<br>By the First Edward's ruthless blade,<br>His son retain'd no more,<br>Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's towers,<br>Beleaguer'd by King Robert's powers;<br>And they took term of truce,<br>If England's King should not relieve<br>The siege ere John the Baptist's eve,<br>To yield them to the Bruce.<br>England was roused - on every side<br>Courier and post and herald hied,<br>To summon prince and peer,<br>At Berwick-bounds to meet their Liege,<br>Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege,<br>With buckler, brand, and spear.<br>The term was nigh - they muster'd fast,<br>By beacon and by bugle-fast<br>Forth marshall'd for the field;<br>There rode each knight of noble name,<br>There England's hardy archers came,<br>The land they trode seem'd all on flame,<br>With banner, blade, and shield!<br>And not famed England's powers alone,<br>Renown'd in arms, the summons own;<br>For Neustria's knights obey'd,<br>Gascogne hath lent her horsemen good,<br>And Cambria, but of late subdued,<br>Sent forth her mountain-multitude,<br>And Connoght pour'd from waste and wood<br>Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude<br>Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>Right to devoted Caledon<br>The storm of war rolls slowly on,<br>With menace deep and dread;<br>So the dark clouds, with gathering power,<br>Suspend a while the threaten'd shower,<br>Till every peak and summit lower<br>Round the pale pilgrim's head.<br>Nor with such pilgrim's started eye<br>King Robert mark'd the tempest nigh!<br>Resolved the brunt to bide,<br>His royal summons warn'd the land,<br>That all who own'd their King's command<br>Should instant take the spear and brand,<br>To combat at his side.<br>O who may tell the sons of fame,<br>That at King Robert's bidding came,<br>To battle for the right!<br>From Cheviot to the shores of Ross,<br>From Solway-Sands to Marshal's-Moss,<br>All boun'd them for the fight.<br>Such news the royal courier tells, <br>Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells;<br>But father tidings must the ear<br>Of Isabel in secret hear.<br>These in her cloister walk, next morn,<br>Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn:-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>'My Edith, can I tell how dear<br>Our intercourse of hearts sincere<br>Hath been to Isabel?-<br>Judge then the sorrow of my heart,<br>When I must say the words, We part!<br>The cheerless convent-cell<br>Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee;<br>Go thou where thy vocation free<br>On happier fortunes fell.<br>Nor, Edith, judge thyself betray'd,<br>Though Robert knows that Lorn's high Maid <br>And his poor silent Page were one.<br>Versed in the fickle heart of man,<br>Earnest and anxious hath he look'd<br>How Ronald's heart the message brook'd<br>That gave him, with her last farewell,<br>The charge of Sister Isabel,<br>To think upon thy better right,<br>And keep the faith his promise plight.<br>Forgive him for thy sister's sake,<br>At first if vain repinings wake -<br>Long since that mood is gone:<br>Now dwells he on thy juster claims,<br>And oft his breach of faith he blames-<br>Forgive him for thine own!'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII.<br>'No! never to Lord Ronald's bower<br>Will I again as paramour' -<br>'Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid,<br>Until my final tale be said!-<br>The good King Robert would engage<br>Edith once more his elfin page,<br>By her own heart, and her own eye,<br>Her lover's penitence to try-<br>Safe in his royal charge, and free,<br>Should such thy final purpose be,<br>Again unknown to seek the cell,<br>And live and die with Isabel.'<br>Thus spoke the maid - King Robert's eye,<br>Might have some glance of policy;<br>Dunstaffnage had the Monarch ta'en, <br>And Lorn had own'd King Robert's reign;<br>Her brother had to England fled,<br>And there in banishment was dead;<br>Ample, through exile, death, and flight,<br>O'er tower and land was Edith's right;<br>This ample right o'er tower and land<br>Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII.<br>Embarrass'd eye and blushing cheek<br>Pleasure and shame, and fear bespeak!<br>Yet much the reasoning Edith made:-<br>'Her sister's faith she must upbraid,<br>Who gave such secret, dark and dear,<br>In council to another's ear.<br>Why should she leave the peaceful cell?-<br>How should she part with Isabel?-<br>How wear that strange attire agen?-<br>How risk herself 'midst martial men?-<br>And how be guarded on the way?-<br>At least she might entreat delay.'<br>Kind Isabel, with secret smile,<br>Saw and forgave the maiden's wile,<br>Reluctant to be thought to move<br>At the first call of truant love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX.<br>Oh, blame her not! - when zephyrs wake,<br>The aspen's trembling leaves must shake;<br>When beams the sun through April's shower,<br>It needs must bloom, the violet flower;<br>And Love, howe'er the maiden strive,<br>Must with reviving hope revive!<br>A thousand soft excuses came,<br>To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame.<br>Pledged by their sires in earliest youth,<br>He had her plighted faith and truth - <br>Then, 'twas her Liege's strict command,<br>And she, beneath his royal hand,<br>A ward in person and in land:-<br>And, last, she was resolved to stay<br>Only brief space - one little day -<br>Close hidden in her safe disguise<br>From all, but most from Ronald's eyes-<br>But once to see him more! - nor blame<br>Her wish - to hear him name her name! -<br>Then, to bear back solitude<br>The thought he had his falsehood rued!<br>But Isabel, who long had seen<br>Her pallid cheek and pensive mien,<br>And well herself the cause might know,<br>Though innocent, of Edith's woe,<br>Joy'd, generous, that revolving time<br>Gave means to expiate the crime.<br>High glow'd her bosom as she said,<br>'Well shall her sufferings be repaid!'<br>Now came the parting hour - a band<br>From Arran's mountains left the land;<br>Their chief, Fitz-Louis, ad the care<br>The speechless Amadine to bear<br>To Bruce, with honour, as behoved<br>To page the monarch dearly loved.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X.<br>The King had deem'd the maiden bright<br>Should reach him long before the fight,<br>But storms and fate her course delay:<br>It was on eve of battle-day,<br>When o'er the Gillie's-hill she rode.<br>The landscape like a furnace glow'd,<br>And far as e'er the eye was borne,<br>The lances waved like autumn-corn.<br>In battles four beneath their eye,<br>The forces of King Robert lie.<br>As one below the hill was laid,<br>Reserved for rescue and for aid;<br>And three, advanced, form'd vaward-line,<br>'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's shrine.<br>Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh<br>As well might mutual aid supply.<br>Beyond, the Southern host appears,<br>A boundless wilderness of spears,<br>Whose verge or rear the anxious eye<br>Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy.<br>Thick flashing in the evening beam,<br>Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam;<br>And where the heaven join'd with the hill,<br>Was distant armour flashing still,<br>So wide, so far, the boundless host<br>Seem'd in the blue horizon lost.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI.<br>Down from the hill the maiden pass'd,<br>At the wild show of war aghast;<br>And traversed first the rearward host,<br>Reserved for aid where needed most.<br>The men of Carrick and of Ayr,<br>Lennox and Lanark too, were there,<br>And all the western land;<br>With these the valiant of the Isles<br>Beneath there Chieftains rank'd their files,<br>In many a plaided band.<br>There, in the centre, proudly raised,<br>The Bruce's royal standard blazed,<br>And there Lord Ronald's banner bore<br>A galley driven by sail and oar.<br>A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made<br>Warriors in mail and plate array'd,<br>With the plumed bonnet and the plaid<br>By these Hebrideans worn;<br>But O! unseen for three long years,<br>Dear was the garb of mountaineers<br>To the fair Maid of Lorn!<br>For one she look'd - but he was far<br>Busied amid the ranks of war -<br>Yet with affection's troubled eye<br>She mark'd his banner boldly fly,<br>Gave on the countless foe a glance,<br>And thought on battle's desperate chance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII.<br>To centre of the vaward-line<br>Fitz-Louis guided Amadine.<br>Arm'd all on foot, that host appears<br>A serried mass of glimmering spears.<br>There stood the Marchers' warlike band,<br>The warriors there of Lodon's land;<br>Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew,<br>A band of archers fierce, though few;<br>The men of Nith and Annan's vale,<br>The dauntless Douglas these obey,<br>And the young Stuart's gentle sway.<br>North-eastward by Saint Ninian's shrine,<br>Beneath fierce Randolph's charge, combine<br>The warriors whom the hardy North<br>From Tay to Sutherland sent forth.<br>The rest of Scotland's war-array<br>With Edward Bruce to westward lay,<br>Where Bannock, with his broken bank<br>And deep ravine, protects their flank.<br>Behind them, screen'd by sheltering wood,<br>The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood:<br>His men-at-arms bare mace and lance,<br>And plumes that wave, and helms that glance.<br>Thus fair divided by the King<br>Centre, and right, and left-ward wing,<br>Composed his front; nor distant far<br>Was strong reserve to aid the war.<br>And 'twas to front of this array,<br>Her guide and Edith made their way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII.<br>Here must they pause; for, in advance<br>As far as one might pitch a lance,<br>The Monarch rode along the van,<br>The foe's approaching force to scan,<br>His line to marshal and to range,<br>And ranks to square, and fronts to change.<br>Alone he rode - from head to heel<br>Sheathed in his ready arms of steel;<br>Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight,<br>But, till more near the shock of flight,<br>Reining a palfrey low and light.<br>A diadem of gold was set<br>Above his bright steel basinet,<br>And clasp'd within its glittering twine<br>Was seen the glove of Argentine;<br>Truncheon or leading staff he lacks, <br>Bearing, instead, a battle-axe.<br>He ranged his soldiers for the fight,<br>Accoutred thus, in open sight<br>Of either host. - Three bowshots far,<br>Paused the deep front of England's war,<br>And rested on their arms awhile,<br>To close and rank their warlike file,<br>And hold high council, if that night<br>Should view the strife, or dawning light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV.<br>O gay, yet fearful to behold,<br>Flashing with steel and rough with gold,<br>And bristled o'er with bills and spears,<br>With plumes and pennons waving fair,<br>Was that bright battle-front! for there<br>Rode England's King and Peers:<br>And who, that saw that Monarch ride,<br>His kingdom battled by his side,<br>Could then his direful doom foretell!-<br>Fair was his seat in knightly selle,<br>And in his sprightly eye was set<br>Some spark of the Plantagenet.<br>Though light and wandering was his glance,<br>It flash'd at sight of shield and lance.<br>'Know'st thou,' he said, 'De Argentine,<br>Yon knight who marshals thus their line?'-<br>'The tokens on his helmet tell<br>The Bruce, my Liege: I know him well.'-<br>'And shall the audacious traitor brave<br>The presence where our banners wave?'-<br>'So please my Liege,' said Argentine,<br>'Were he but horsed on steed like mine,<br>To give him fair and knightly chance,<br>I would adventure forth my lance.'-<br>'In battle-day,' the King replied,<br>'Nice tourney rules are set aside.<br>-Still must the rebel dare our wrath?<br>Set on him - Sweep him from our path!'<br>And, at King Edward's signal, soon<br>Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV.<br>Of Hereford's high blood he came,<br>A race renown'd for knightly fame.<br>He burn'd before his Monarch's eye<br>To do some deed of chivalry.<br>He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his lance,<br>And darted on the Bruce at once.<br>-As motionless as rocks, that bide<br>The wrath of advancing tide,<br>The Bruce stood fast. - Each breast beat high,<br>And dazzled was each gazing eye-<br>The heart had hardly time to think,<br>The eyelid scarce had time to wink,<br>While on the King, like flash of flame,<br>Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came!<br>The partridge may the falcon mock,<br>If that slight palfrey stand the shock -<br>But, swerving from the Knight's career,<br>Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear.<br>Onward the baffled warrior bore<br>His course - but soon his course was o'er!-<br>High in his stirrups stood the King,<br>And gave his battle-axe the swing.<br>Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd,<br>Fell that stern dint - the first - the last!-<br>Such strength upon the blow was put,<br>The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut;<br>The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,<br>Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp.<br>Springs from the blow the startled horse,<br>Drops to the plain the lifeless corse;<br>-First of that fatal field, how soon,<br>How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI.<br>One pitying glance the Monarch sped,<br>Where on the field his foe lay dead;<br>Then gently turn'd his palfrey's head,<br>And, pacing back his sober way,<br>Slowly he gain'd his own array.<br>There round their King the leaders crowd,<br>And blame his recklessness aloud, <br>That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous spear<br>A life so valued and so dear.<br>His broken weapon's shaft survey'd <br>The King, and careless answer made,-<br>'My loss may pay my folly's tax; <br>I've broke my trusty battle-axe.'<br>'Twas then Fitz-Louis, bending low,<br>Did Isabel's commission show;<br>Edith, disguised, at distance stands, <br>And hides her blushes with her hands.<br>The Monarch's brow has changed its hue,<br>Away the gory axe he threw,<br>While to the seeming page he drew,<br>Clearing war's terrors from his eye.<br>Her hand with gentle ease he took,<br>With such a kind protecting look,<br>As to a weak and timid boy<br>Might speak, that elder brother's care<br>And elder brother's love were there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII.<br>'Fear not,' he said, 'young Amadine!'<br>Then whisper'd, 'Still that name be thine.<br>Fate plays her wonted fantasy,<br>Kind Amadine, with thee and me,<br>And sends thee here in doubtful hour.<br>But soon we are beyond her power;<br>For on this chosen battle-plain,<br>Victor or vanquish'd, I remain.<br>Do thou to yonder hill repair; <br>The followers of our host are there,<br>And all who may not weapons bear. -<br>Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care.-<br>Joyful we meet, if all go well;<br>If not, in Arran's holy cell<br>Thou must take part with Isabel;<br>For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath sworn,<br>Not to regain the Maid of Lorn,<br>(The bliss on earth he covets most,)<br>Would he forsake his battle-post,<br>To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all.-<br>But, hark! some news these trumpets tell;<br>And in a lower voice he said,<br>'Be of good cheer - farewell, sweet maid!'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII.<br>'What train of dust, with trumpet-sound<br>And glimmering spears, is wheeling round<br>Our leftward flank?' - the Monarch cried,<br>To Moray's Earl who rode beside.<br>'Lo! round thy station pass the foes!<br>Randolph, thy wreath hath lost a rose.'<br>The Earl his visor closed, and said - <br>'My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade.-<br>Follow, my household!' - And they go<br>Like lightning on the advancing foe.<br>'My Liege,' said noble Douglas then,<br>'Earl Randolph has but one to ten:<br>Let me go forth his band to aid!'-<br>-'Stir not. The error he hath made,<br>Let him not weaken mine array.'<br>Then loudly rose the conflict-cry,<br>And Douglas's brave heart swell'd high,-<br>'My Liege,' he said, 'with patient ear<br>I must not Moray's death-knell hear!'-<br>'Then go - but speed thee back again.'-<br>Forth sprung the Douglas with his train:<br>But, when they won a rising hill,<br>He bade his followers hold them still.-<br>'See, see! the routed Southern fly!<br>The Earl hath won the victory.<br>Lo! where yon steeds run masterless,<br>His banner towers above the press.<br>Rein up; our presence would impair<br>The fame we come too late to share.'<br>Back to the host the Douglas rode,<br>And soon glad tidings are abroad,<br>That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain,<br>His followers fled with loosen'd rein.-<br>That skirmish closed the busy day,<br>And couch'd in battle's prompt array,<br>Each army on their weapons lay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX.<br>It was a night of lovely June,<br>High rode in cloudless blue the moon,<br>Demayet smiled beneath her ray;<br>Old Stirling's towers arose in light,<br>And, twined in links of silver bright,<br>Her winding river lay.<br>Ah! gentle planet! other sight<br>Shall greet thee, next returning night,<br>Of broken arms and banners tore,<br>And marshes dark with human gore,<br>And piles of slaughter'd men and horse,<br>And Forth that floats the frequent corse,<br>And many a wounded wretch to plain<br>Beneath thy silver light in vain!<br>But now, from England's host, the cry<br>Thou hear'st of wassail revelry,<br>While from the Scottish legions pass<br>The murmur'd prayer, the early mass!-<br>Here, numbers had presumption given;<br>There, bands o'er-match'd sought aid from Heaven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX.<br>On Gillie's-hill, whose height commands<br>The battle-field, fair Edith stands,<br>With serf and page unfit for war,<br>To eye the conflict from afar.<br>O! with what doubtful agony <br>She sees the dawning tint the sky! -<br>Now on the Ochils gleams the sun,<br>And glistens now Demayet dun;<br>Is it the lark that carols shrill,<br>Is it the bittern's early hum?<br>No! - distant, but increasing still,<br>The trumpet's sound swells up the hill,<br>With the deep murmur of the drum.<br>Responsive from the Scottish host,<br>Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were toss'd,<br>His breast and brow each soldier cross'd,<br>And started from the ground;<br>Arm'd and array'd for instant fight,<br>Rose archer, spearman, squire and knight,<br>And in the pomp of battle bright<br>The dread battalia frown'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI.<br>Now onward, and in open view,<br>The countless ranks of England drew,<br>Dark rolling like the ocean-tide,<br>When the rough west hath chafed his pride,<br>And his deep roar sends challenge wide<br>To all that bars his way!<br>In front the gallant archers trode,<br>The men-at-arms behind them rode,<br>And midmost of the phalanx broad<br>The Monarch held his sway.<br>Beside him many a war-horse fumes,<br>Around him waves a sea of plumes,<br>Where many a knight in battle known,<br>And some who spurs had first braced on,<br>And deem'd that fight should see them won, <br>King Edward's hests obey.<br>De Argentine attends his side,<br>With stout De Valence, Pembroke's pride,<br>Selected champions from the train,<br>To wait upon his bridle-rein.<br>Upon the Scottish foe he gazed -<br>-At once, before his sight amazed,<br>Sunk banner, spear, and shield;<br>Each weapon-point is downward sent,<br>Each warrior to the ground is bent.<br>'The rebels, Argentine, repent!<br>For pardon they have kneel'd.'-<br>'Aye! - but they bend to other powers,<br>And other pardon sue than ours!<br>See where yon bare-foot Abbot stands,<br>And blesses them with lifted hands!<br>Upon the spot where they have kneel'd,<br>These men will die, or win the field.'-<br>-'Then prove we if they die or win!<br>Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII.<br>Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high,<br>Just as the Northern ranks arose,<br>Signal for England's archery<br>Then stepp'd each yeoman forth a pace,<br>Glanced at the intervening space,<br>And raised his left hand high;<br>To the right ear the cords they bring -<br>-At once ten thousand bow-strings ring,<br>Ten thousand arrows fly!<br>Nor paused on the devoted Scot<br>The ceaseless fury of their shot;<br>As fiercely and as fast,<br>Forth whistling came the grey-goose wing<br>As the wild hailstones pelt and ring<br>Adown December's blast.<br>Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide,<br>Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide;<br>Woe, woe to Scotland's banner'd pride,<br>If the fell shower may last!<br>Upon the right, behind the wood,<br>Each by his steed dismounted, stood<br>The Scottish revelry;-<br>-With foot in stirrup, hand on mane, <br>Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain<br>His own keen heart, his eager train,<br>Until the archers gain'd the plain;<br>Then, 'Mount, ye gallants free!'<br>He cried; and, vaulting from the ground,<br>His saddle every horseman found.<br>On high their glittering crests they toss,<br>As springs the wild-fire from the moss;<br>The shield hangs down on every breast,<br>Each ready lance is in the rest,<br>And loud shouts Edward Bruce,-<br>'Forth, Marshal! on the peasant foe!<br>We'll tame the terrors of their bow,<br>And cut the bow-string loose!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII.<br>Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' flanks,<br>They rush'd among the archer ranks,<br>No spears were there the shock to let,<br>No stakes to turn the charge were set,<br>And how shall yeoman's armour slight,<br>Stand the long lance and mace of might?<br>Or what may their short swords avail,<br>'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail?<br>Amid their ranks the chargers sprung,<br>High o'er their heads the weapons swung,<br>And shriek and groan and vengeful shout<br>Give note of triumph and of rout!<br>Awhile, with stubborn hardihood,<br>Their English hearts the strife made good.<br>Borne down at length on every side,<br>Compell'd to flight they scatter wide.-<br>Let stage of Sherwood leap for glee,<br>And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee!<br>The broken bows of Bannock's shore<br>Shall in the greenwood ring no more!<br>Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now,<br>The maids may twine the summer bough,<br>May northward look with longing glance,<br>For those that wont to lead the dance,<br>For the blithe archers look in vain!<br>Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en,<br>Pierced through, trod down, by thousands slain,<br>They cumber Bannock's bloody plain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV.<br>The King with scorn beheld their flight,<br>'Are these,' he said, 'our yeoman wight?<br>Each braggart churl could boast before,<br>Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore!<br>Fitter to plunder chase or park,<br>Than make a manly foe their mark.-<br>Forward, each gentleman and knight!<br>Let gentle blood show generous might,<br>And chivalry redeem the fight!'<br>To rightward of the wild affray,<br>The field show'd fair and level way;<br>But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care<br>Had bored the ground with many a pit,<br>With turf and brushwood hidden yet,<br>That form'd a ghastly snare.<br>Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came,<br>With spears in rest, and hearts on flame,<br>That panted for the shock!<br>With blazing crests and banners spread,<br>And trumpet-clang and clamour dread,<br>The wide plain thunder'd to their tread,<br>As far as Stirling rock.<br>Down! down! in headlong overthrow,<br>Horseman and horse, the foremost go,<br>Wild floundering on the field!<br>The first are in destruction's gorge,<br>Their followers wildly o'er them urge;-<br>The knightly helm and shield,<br>The mail, the action, and the spear,<br>Strong hand, high heart, are useless here!<br>Loud from the mass confused the cry<br>Of dying warriors swells on high,<br>And steeds that shriek in agony!<br>They came like mountain-torrent red,<br>That thunders o'er its rocky bed;<br>They broke like that same torrent's wave,<br>When swallow'd by a darksome cave.<br>Billows on billows burst and boil,<br>Maintaining still the stern turmoil,<br>And to their wild and tortured groan<br>Each adds new terrors of his own!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV.<br>Too strong in courage and in might<br>Was England yet, to yield the fight.<br>Her noblest all are here;<br>Names that to fear were never known,<br>Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton,<br>And Oxford's famed De Vere.<br>There Gloster plied the bloody sword,<br>And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford,<br>Bottetourt and Sanzavere,<br>Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came,<br>And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame - <br>Names known too well in Scotland's war,<br>At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar,<br>Blazed broader yet in after years,<br>At Cressy red and fell Poitiers.<br>Pembroke with these, and Argentine,<br>Brought up the rearward battle-line.<br>With caution o'er the ground they tread, <br>Slippery with blood and piled with dead,<br>Till hand to hand in battle set,<br>The bills with spears and axes met,<br>And, closing dark on every side,<br>Raged the full contest far and wide.<br>Then was the strength of Douglas tried,<br>Then proved was Randolph's generous pride,<br>And well did Stewart's actions grace<br>The sire of Scotland's royal race!<br>Firmly they kept their ground;<br>As firmly England onward press'd,<br>And down went many a noble crest,<br>And rent was many a valiant breast,<br>And Slaughter revell'd round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI.<br>Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set,<br>Unceasing blow by blow was met;<br>The groans of those who fell<br>Were drown'd amid the shriller clang,<br>That from the blades and harness rang,<br>And in the battle-yell.<br>Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot, <br>Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot;<br>And O! amid that waste of life,<br>What various motives fired the strife!<br>The aspiring Noble bled for fame,<br>The Patriot for his country's claim;<br>This Knight his youthful strength to prove,<br>And that to win his lady's love;<br>Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood,<br>From habit some, or hardihood.<br>But ruffian stern, and soldier good,<br>The noble and the slave,<br>From various cause the same wild road,<br>On the same bloody morning, trode,<br>To that dark inn, the grave!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII.<br>The tug of strife to flag begins,<br>Though neither loses yet nor wins.<br>High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust,<br>And feebler speeds the blow and thrust.<br>Douglas leans on his war-sword now,<br>And Randolph wipes his bloody brow;<br>Nor less had toil'd each Southern knight,<br>From morn till mid-day in the fight.<br>Strong Egremont for air must gasp,<br>Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp,<br>And Montague must quit his spear,<br>And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere!<br>The blows of Berkley fall less fast,<br>And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast<br>Hath lost its lively tone;<br>Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word,<br>And Percy's shout was fainter heard, -<br>'My merry men, fight on!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII.<br>Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye,<br>The slackening of the storm could spy.<br>'One effort more, and Scotland's free!<br>Lord of the Isles, my trust in the<br>Is firm as Ailsa Rock;<br>Rush on with Highland sword and targe,<br>I, with my Carrick spearmen, charge;<br>Now, forward to the shock!'<br>At once the spears were forward thrown,<br>Against the sun the broadswords shone;<br>The pibroch lent its maddening tone,<br>And loud King Robert's voice was known-<br>'Carrick, press on - they fail, they fail!<br>Press on, brave sons of Innisgail,<br>The foe is fainting fast!<br>Each strike for parent, child, and wife,<br>For Scotland, liberty, and life, -<br>The battle cannot last!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX.<br>The fresh and desperate onset bore<br>The foes three furlongs back and more,<br>Leaving their noblest in their gore.<br>Alone, De Argentine<br>Yet bears on high his red-cross shield,<br>Gathers the relics of the field,<br>Renews the ranks where they have reel'd,<br>And still makes good the line.<br>Brief strife, but fierce, his efforts raise<br>A bright but momentary blaze.<br>Fair Edith heard the Southern shout,<br>Beheld them turning from the rout,<br>Heard the wild call their trumpets sent,<br>In notes 'twixt triumph and lament.<br>That rallying force combined anew,<br>Appear'd in her distracted view,<br>To hem the Islemen round;<br>'O God! the combat they renew,<br>And is no rescue found!<br>And ye that look thus tamely on,<br>And see your native land o'erthrown,<br>O! are your hearts of flesh or stone?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX.<br>The multitude that watch'd afar,<br>Rejected from the ranks of war,<br>Had not unmoved beheld the fight<br>When strove the Bruce for Scotland's right;<br>Each heart had caught the patriot spark,<br>Old man and stripling, priest and clerk,<br>Bondsman and serf; even female hand<br>Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand;<br>But, when mute Amadine they heard<br>Give to their zeal his signal-word,<br>A frenzy fired the throng;-<br>'Portents and miracles impeach<br>Our sloth - the dumb our duties teach -<br>And he that gives the mute his speech,<br>Can bid the weak be strong.<br>To us, as to our lords, are given<br>A native earth, a promised heaven;<br>To us, as to our lords, belongs<br>The vengeance for our nation's wrongs;<br>The choice, 'twixt death or freedom, warms<br>Our breasts as theirs - To arms! to arms!'<br>To arms they flew,- axe, club, or spear,-<br>And mimic ensigns high they rear,<br>And, like a banner'd host afar,<br>Bear down on England's wearied war.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI.<br>Already scatter'd o'er the plain,<br>Reproof, command, and counsel vain,<br>The rearward squadrons fled amain,<br>Or made but doubtful stay;-<br>But when they mark'd the seeming show<br>Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe,<br>The boldest broke array.<br>O give their hapless prince his due!<br>In vain the Royal Edward threw<br>His person 'mid the spears,<br>Cried, 'Fight!' to terror and despair,<br>Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair,<br>And cursed their caitiff fears;<br>Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein,<br>And forced him from the fatal plain.<br>With them rode Argentine, until,<br>They gain'd the summit of the hill,<br>But quitted there the train:-<br>'In yonder field a gage I left,<br>I must not live of fame bereft;<br>I needs must turn again.<br>Speed hence, my Liege, for on your trace<br>The fiery Douglas takes the chase,<br>I know his banner well.<br>God send my Sovereign joy and bliss,<br>And many a happier field than this!-<br>Once more, my Liege, farewell!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXII.<br>Again he faced the battle-field,-<br>Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.<br>'Now then,' he said, and couch'd his spear,<br>'My course is run, the goal is near;<br>One effort more, one brave career,<br>Must close this race of mine.'<br>Then in his stirrups rising high,<br>He shouted loud his battle-cry,<br>'Saint James for Argentine!'<br>And, of the bold pursuers, four<br>The gallant knight from saddle bore;<br>But not unharm'd - a lance's point<br>Has found his breastplate's loosen'd joint,<br>An axe has razed his crest;<br>Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord,<br>Who press'd the chase with gory sword,<br>He rode with spear in rest,<br>And through his bloody tartans bored,<br>And through his gallant breast.<br>Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer<br>Yet writhed him up against the spear,<br>And swung his broadsword round!<br>Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way,<br>Beneath that blow's tremendous sway,<br>The blood gush'd from the wound;<br>And the grim Lord of Colonsay<br>Hath turn'd him on the ground,<br>And laugh'd in death-pang, that his blade<br>The mortal thrust so well repaid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXIII.<br>Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done,<br>To use his conquest boldly won;<br>And gave command for horse and spear<br>To press the Southron's scatter'd rear,<br>Nor let his broken force combine,<br>-When the war-cry of Argentine<br>Fell faintly on his ear;<br>'Save, save his life,' he cried, 'O save<br>The squadrons round free passage gave,<br>The wounded knight drew near;<br>He raised his red-cross shield no more,<br>Helm, cuish, and breastplate stream'd with gore,<br>Yet, as he saw the King advance,<br>He strove even then to couch his lance-<br>The effort was in vain!<br>The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse!<br>Wounded and weary, in mid course<br>He stumbled on the plain.<br>Then foremost was the generous Bruce<br>To raise his head, his helm to loose;-<br>'Lord Earl, the day is thine!<br>My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate,<br>Have made our meeting all too late:<br>Yet this may Argentine,<br>As boon from ancient comrade, crave -<br>A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXIV.<br>Bruce press'd his dying hand - its grasp<br>Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,<br>It stiffen'd and grew cold -<br>'And, O farewell!' the victor cried,<br>'Of chivalry the flower and pride,<br>The arm in battle bold,<br>The courteous mien, the noble race,<br>The stainless faith, the manly face! -<br>Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine,<br>For late-wake of De Argentine.<br>O'er better knight on death-bier laid,<br>Torch never gleam'd nor mass was said!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXV.<br>Nor for De Argentine alone,<br>Through Ninian's church these torches shone,<br>And rose the death-prayer's awful tone.<br>That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale,<br>On broken plate and bloodied mail,<br>Rent crest and shatter'd coronet,<br>Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret;<br>And the best names that England knew,<br>Claim'd in the death-prayer dismal due.<br>Yet mourn not, Land of Fame!<br>Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield<br>Retreated from so sad a field,<br>Since Norman William came.<br>Oft may thine annals justly boast<br>Of battles stern by Scotland lost;<br>Grudge not her victory,<br>When for her freeborn rights she strove;<br>Rights dear to all who freedom love,<br>To none so dear as thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXVI.<br>Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear<br>Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear;<br>With him, a hundred voices tell<br>Of prodigy and miracle,<br>'For the mute page had spoke.'-<br>'Page!' said Fitz-Louis, 'rather, say,<br>An angel sent from realms of day,<br>To burst the English yoke.<br>I saw his plume and bonnet drop,<br>A lovely brow, dark locks that wave,<br>To his bright eyes new lustre gave,<br>A step as light upon the green,<br>As if his pinions waved unseen!'<br>'Spoke he with none?' - 'With none - one word<br>Burst when he saw the Island Lord<br>Returning from the battle-field.'-<br>'What answer made the Chief?' - 'He kneel'd,<br>Durst not look up, but mutter'd low,<br>Some mingled sounds that none might know,<br>And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear,<br>As being of superior sphere.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXVII.<br>Even upon Bannock's bloody plain,<br>Heap'd then with thousands of the slain,<br>'Mid victor monarch's musings high,<br>Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's eye:-<br>'And bore he such angelic air,<br>Such noble front, such waving hair?<br>Hath Ronald kneel'd to him?' he said;<br>'Then must we call the church to aid-<br>Our will be to the Abbot known,<br>Ere these strange news are wider blown,<br>To Cambuskenneth straight ye pass,<br>And deck the church for solemn mass,<br>To pay for high deliverance given,<br>A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven.<br>Let him array, besides, such state,<br>As should on princes' nuptials wait.<br>Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite,<br>That once broke short that spousal rite,<br>Ourself will grace, with early morn,<br>The Bridal of the Maid of Lorn.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Conclusion</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way;<br>Go boldly forth; nor yet thy master blame,<br>Who chose no patron for his humble lay,<br>And graced thy numbers with no friendly name,<br>Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was<br>- and O! how many sorrows crowd<br>Into these two brief words! - <br>there was<br>a claim<br>By generous friendship given - had fate allow'd,<br>It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All angel now - yet little less than all,<br>While still a pilgrim in our world below!<br>What 'vails it us that patience to recall,<br>Which hid its own to soothe all other woe;<br>What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow<br>Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair:<br>And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know,<br>That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair,<br>Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519711" data-title="The Lord of the Isles: Canto VI. de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="I. O who, that shared them, ever shall forget The emotions of the spirit-rousing time, When breathless in the mart the couriers met, Early and late, at evening and at prime; When the loud cannon and the merry chime Hail'd news on news, as field on..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black