So still-so calm-as it rebuked
The armament that o'er it looked!
Oh here, methinks, the voice of peace
Might bid the awful warfare cease-
And here might white-robed mercy come
And quell the roar of martial drum,
As now to early arms it call'd,
And th' echoes of the vale appalled!
Young EDWARD's troops with proud array
Were marshalled by the dawn of day-
It was a glorious sight:
There stood the archers in the front,
Tho' not to bear the battle's brunt—
And there with conscious might
The men at arms, with battle axe,
To make their first and fierce attacks,
Stood ready for the fight;
On either wing the spearmen stand,
A ready, brave, and gallant band-
While to protect the army's flanks,
Stood valiant knights in martial ranks-
And pennons waved, and banners bright
Danced in the early morning's light;
And burnished helm with snow-white plumes
Seemed like the wave-crest's foam-
On many a breast the white rose blooms,
Tokens of love and home-
But emblems now of war and strife,
With combat's din, and sorrows rife.
King HENRY's forces fewer were,
But nerved to valour by despair;
Tho' banners here and there upreared
Their ample folds, yet still uncheered
The army was of all that's gay
In war's unhallowed, bright array——
For march by night, and march by day,
Had dimmed the glory of their crests,
Tho' not the valour of their breasts
And with a still, yet fierce delight,
They waited for the expected fight:
But ere they rushed upon their foes, Ere war-cry's shout, or trumpet's blast. Across the vale in fury past,
This battle anthem rose :
ST. GEORGE for merry England!
The battle cry of yore-
In fields of war or chivalry,
Amid the combat's roar ;
The cry that cheeved our fathers hearts,,
In days of glory flown,
Is it an unremembered sound,
Forgotten and unknown?
St. George for merry England
How fearlessly and bold
For England and for freedom fought
The gallant hearts of old.
The glorious light that war-cry flung
On the warrior's weary brow,
Hath it departed-has the sound
No stirring power now?
St. George for merry England!
For Royal HENRY's right-
The cry that warmed our fathers,
Shall cheer us in the fight;
And still where'er a heart may beat,
Or a banner proudly wave,
This sound shall rise above the din-
This war-cry of the brave!
AWHILE the echoes swelled the gale—
Then down into the middle vale
The armies rushed: and loud the cries,
The din-the roar-that rend the skies:
As waves that dash against a rock,
So seemed at first the battle shock;
As clouds that meet in middle air,
The light'ning in their bosoms bear-
Which flashes forth in transient lines,
And then in lurid splendour shines-
Till all their store of thunder gone,
The heavy flood in streams comes on:
So was the crash on that dread field,
When spear cross'd spear, and falchion, shield ;:
So streamed the gore that dyed the plain,
Forth gushing from a thousand slain—
As fierce the flames of warfare burned,
Young ARTHUR'S form might be discerned...
Now cheering with a word his troops-
Now leading back the scattered groups—
Now rushing with his coal-black steed
To where the royal force had need-
Then dashing 'mid the rebel train,
And covering his path with slain ;
Then lured too far, he would turn back.
And leave the blood-marks of his track..
But vain the struggle: fierce tho' few,
In vain the royal trʊops renew
Their changes made against the foe-
Who when he saw the battle go
Against him, brought fresh forces up,
And thus success's balmy cup,
Was dash'd away from thirsty lips,
And hope's bright day-star felt eclipse!
All day with desperate zeal they fought-
At times it seemed as tho' they brought
With strength all spent a fiercer power
To arm them in that awful hour;
But when soft even's twilight shade.
In lonely gloom the earth arrayed,
The rebels rushed on that small train
Which still possessed the battle plain,
And strong in numbers, hewed them in,
With cries of triumph, shouts, and din.
But still they stood, that gallant band,
Determined to the last to stand.
And tho' of victory they despaired,
In glory's arms to die they dared;
And 'mong the last who that day fell,
(His last words breathing a farewell
To her who even in death's stern hour
Had on his spirit tender power)
Was ARTHUR ! Wherefore should there tears
Be shed o'er him, whose manhood's years
Were spent with all that bright renown
Which fame on valiant hearts sheds down!
They sought his corpse among the slain
That heaped in gory view the plain,
And bore it, with the illustrious dead
Who there for royalty had bled,
To that small church-that fitting rite
Of burial should there be given
To those who in that awful fight
Or for or 'gainst the King had striven.
TO MARGARET soon the news was borne
That cause was given again to mourn;
But yet she purposed to remain
Within the church's holy fane,
Till she could leave this land of woes-
Of feeble friends, and mighty foes.
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