Even so it was.  From Flodden ridge
  The Scots beheld the English host 570
  Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,
  And heedful watch’d them as they cross’d
The Till by Twisel Bridge. 
  High sight it is, and haughty, while
  They dive into the deep defile; 575
  Beneath the cavern’d 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, 580
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, 585
  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, 590
Twisel! thy rock’s 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, 595
Had then from many an axe its doom,
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 while, 600
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, 605
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! 610
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skill’d 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, 615
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!—­
The precious hour has pass’d in vain,
And England’s host has gain’d the plain;
Wheeling their march, and circling still,
Around the base of Flodden hill. 620

XXI.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion’s eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
’Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum! 
And see ascending squadrons come
  Between Tweed’s river and the hill, 625
Foot, horse, and cannon:—­hap what hap,
My basnet to a prentice cap,
  Lord Surrey’s o’er the Till!—­
Yet more! yet more!—­how far array’d
They file from out the hawthorn shade, 630
  And sweep so gallant by!