Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reach'd, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their march; 540 (There now is left but one frail arch, Yet mourn thou not its cells; Our time a fair exchange has made; Hard by, in hospitable shade, A reverend pilgrim dwells, 545 Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair, And lodging for his train and Clare. 550 Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, To view afar the Scottish power, Encamp'd on Flodden edge: The white pavilions made a show, Like remnants of the winter snow, 555 Along the dusky ridge. Long Marmion look'd:--at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, 560 For, flashing on the hedge of spears, The eastern sunbeam shines. Their front now deepening, now extending; Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, 565 The skilful Marmion well could know, They watch'd the motions of some foe, Who traversed on the plain below. XIX. Even so it was. From Flodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host 570 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; 575 Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, Troop after troop are disappearing; Troop after troop their banners rearing, 580 Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den, Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, Standards on standards, men on men, 585 In slow succession still, And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill. That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 590 Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang; And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 595 Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room. XX.