From parley pass'd the chieftains bold;

Their gather'd powers behind them roll’d.

Reposing on the level west,

The sun had sought his couch of rest ;
Yet still his last rays lightly play'd

On the dark pine's sepulchral shade;

A moment on the topmost spire

Quiver'd the faint decaying fire,

Then slow in reddening cloud went down ;

The forest lower'd with darker frown;

Beneath its melancholy arch

The chieftains led their dusky march;

In mist and shadow half obscur'd,

Thro' the lone woods their vassals pour'd; Their wearied limbs promiscuous threw

Where mountain heath and wild fern grew,

There snatch'd short sleep and troubled dream,

Or mus'd around the watch-fire's gleam.

The watch-fire's dying gleam alone

Thro' the night's settled darkness shone;

Nor aught disturb'd its calm profound,
Save deep-ton'd bark of answering hound,
Scar'd by the raven's luckless croak;

Or night-wind moaning thro' the oak,

Or wakeful courser's distant neigh,

Impatient for the spring of day.

G

THE REPULSE.

THRO' skies of chaste and cloudless blue

His temper'd rays the young sun threw ;

And nature, starting forth from shade,

The homage of her gladness paid;

Like a fond parent, sweetly mild,

On all her wide creation smil'd,
Leading it on with calm delight
To peace and joy, to life and light.
Already bath'd in reeking show'rs
Of fragrant dew, the forest flow'rs
Unfold their blossoms to the morn;
The linnet carols from the thorn;

From tufted heath the roe-bucks spring;

The wild bee murmurs on the wing,

In airy circles wandering on,

Humming his morning orison.

Those forest flowers, with night-dews damp,

Shrivel beneath the iron stamp

Of prancing chargers; on his spray

The linnet hears, and flits away;

The wild-bee's hum in distance dies;

Thro' the thick wood the roe-buck flies,

To lurk in more secure retreat

Whilst face to face the Barons meet.

Short courtesy was theirs and mute,

One stubborn bend, one stern salute;
Disdainful homage, proudly spurn'd;

Then Percy to his archers turn'd:

Archers, arrange your lengthen'd ranks;

· There take your stations, each his own,

6

Nor yet secure and listless stand,

'But keen of eye and prompt of hand,

• With bow-strings fitted to the grooves,

6

Again my lion-banner ground;

Whence never shall it more be borne,

Till from its height yon Heart be torn,

And down to dust this arm shall bring

• Its crested crown and soaring wing.'