As ye see it, from his breast, And I closed our hero’s eyelids, And I left him to his rest. In the mountains growled the thunder, As I leaped the woeful wall, And the heavy clouds were settling Over Flodden, like a pall.” XII. So he ended. And the others Cared not any answer then; Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow, Sitting anguish-struck, like men Who have seen the roaring torrent Sweep their happy homes away, And yet linger by the margin, Staring idly on the spray. But without the maddening tumult Waxes ever more and more, And the crowd of wailing women Gather round the Council door. Every dusky spire is ringing With a dull and hollow knell, And the Miserere’s singing To the tolling of the bell. Through the streets the burghers hurry, Spreading terror as they go; And the rampart’s thronged with watchers For the coming of the foe. From each mountain top a pillar Streams into the torpid air, Bearing token from the Border That the English host is there. All without is flight and terror, All within is woe and fear— God protect thee, Maiden City, For thy latest hour is near! XIII.