'Nor less,' he said,--'when looking forth,
I view yon Empress of the North 660
Sit on her hilly throne;
Her palace's imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers--
Nor less,' he said, 'I moan, 665
To think what woe mischance may bring,
And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant King;
Or with the larum call
The burghers forth to watch and ward, 670
'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard
Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall.--
But not for my presaging thought,
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!
Lord Marmion, I say nay: 675
God is the guider of the field,
He breaks the champion's spear and shield,--
But thou thyself shalt say,
When joins yon host in deadly stowre,
That England's dames must weep in bower, 680
Her monks the death-mass sing;
For never saw'st thou such a power
Led on by such a King.'--
And now, down winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain, 685
And there they made a stay.--
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 695
In the succeeding lay.