And 'twas a glorious sight to see That break of day, from tower and town, Pour forth his martial tenantry, To swell the array on Urswick Down: To see the glancing pennons wave Above them, and the banner borne All joyously by warriors, brave As ever hailed a battle morn. And 'twas a stirring sound to hear, Uprolling from the camp,--the drum, The music, and the martial cheer, That told the chiefs, "We come, we come!" Then in that sunny time of June, When green leaves burdened every spray, With all the merry birds in tune, They marched upon their southward way. And, as through channel'd sands afar The tides with steady onward force Push inland, roll'd their wave of war To Trent, its unresisted course. And spreading wide its crest where Stoke O'erlook'd the Royal lines below, Spent its long gathering strength, and broke, And plung'd in fury on the foe. For three long hours that summer morn King Henry by his standard rode, Through onset and repulse upborne, A tower of strength where'er it glowed. For three long hours the fated band Of chiefs, that summer morning waged A desperate battle, hand to hand, Where'er the thickest carnage raged, Till midst four thousand liegemen slain, The flower of that misguided host, Borne down upon the fatal plain, Fame, honour, life, and cause were lost. Turn ye, who high in hall and tower Sit waiting for your lords, and burn To wrest the tidings of that hour From lips that never may return: Turn inwards from the news that flies Through England's summer groves, and close The circlets of your asking eyes Against the coming cloud of woes! Wild rumour, like the wind that wings, None knows or how or whence, its way, Storm-like on Broughton's turret rings The dire disaster of that day. Storm-like through his dislorded halls And farmsteads lone, the rumour breaks; And far by Witherslack's grey walls, And hamlet cots, despair awakes. And all old things meet shock and change, Since Broughton, down-borne in his pride On that red field, no more shall range By Duddon's rocks, or Winster's side. And while the hills around rejoiced, And in the triumph of their King Old strains of peace sang trumpet-voiced, And bade the landscapes smile and sing; Far stretching o'er the land, his sign The King from Broughton's charters tore; And the old honours of his line In his old tower were known no more. His halls, his manors, his fair lands, Pass'd from his name; round all he'd loved, And all that loved him, power's dread hands In shadow through the noontide moved: E'en to those cottage homes apart, His poor men's huts by lonely ways-- To crush from out the humblest heart Each pulse that dared to throb his praise!