The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott ... Notes & life of the author.

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, i'Where flowos the sullen Til,
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)
Twisell 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 i
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its door
To give the marching columns room.
XX,
And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the whil |
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the Damnes
Inactive on his steed,
And sees, between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed's southern strand4
His host Lord Surrey lead?
What vails the vain knight-errants's brarldt- -
0, Douglas, for thy leading wand!
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well skilled Bruce, to rule the figh-t,
And cry —" Saint Andrew and our riglit!"
Another sight bad seen that morn,
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannock-bourne!bThe precious hour has passed in vain,
And England's host has gained the plains
Wheeling their march, and circling stil4
Around tke base of Floddea-hik....