‘O Lady,’ cried the Monk, ‘away!’ 1015
  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 1020
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

XXXIV.

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; 1025
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, 1030
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
  Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 1035
  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; 1040
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, 1045
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, 1050
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, 1055
  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, 1060
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!

XXXV.

Day dawns upon the mountain’s side:—­
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one: 
The sad survivors all are gone.—­ 1072
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, 1075
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land