SCENE V.--The Gillies' Hill. Men and women watching the battle. A Young Friar. "St. Andrew and St. George! Fight on! fight on!" A whole year's storms let loose on one small lake Prisoned among the mountains, rioting Between the heathery slopes and rugged cliffs, Dragging the water from its deepest lair, Shaking it out like feathers on the blast; With shock on shock of thunder; shower on shower Of jagged and sultry lightning; banners, crests, Of rainbows torn and streaming, tossed and flung From panting surge to surge; where one strong sound, Enduring with continuous piercing shriek Whose pitch is ever heightened, still escapes Wroth from the roaring war of elements; Where mass and motion, flash and colour spin Wrapped and confounded in their blent array: And this all raving on a summer's morn, With unseen larks beside the golden sun, And merest blue above; with not a breeze To fan the burdened rose-trees, or incense With mimic rage the foamless rivulet, That like a little child goes whispering Along the woodland ways its happy thought; Were no more wild, grotesque, fantastical, Uncouth, unnatural--and I would think Impossible, but for the vision here-- Than is this clamorous and unsightly war, Where swords and lances, shields and arrows, flash, Whistle, and clang--splintered like icicles, Eclipsed like moons, broken like reeds, like flames-- Lewd flames that lick themselves in burning lust-- With scorpion tongues lapping the lives of men; Where axes cut to hearts worth all the oaks; Where steel burns blue, and golden armours blaze-- One moment so, the next, a ruddier hue; Where broidered banners rustle in the charge, And deck the carnage out----A skeleton, Ribboned and garlanded may sweetly suit The morris-dancers for a May-pole now!-- Where hoofs of horses spatter brains of men, And beat dull thunder from the shaking sod; Where yelling pibrochs, braying trumpets, drums, And shouts, and shrieks, and groans, hoarse, shrill--a roar That shatters hearing--echo to the sky; Where myriad ruthless vessels, freighted full Of proud rich blood--with images of God, Their reasoning souls, deposed from their command-- By winds of cruel hate usurped and urged, Are driven upon each other, split, and wrecked, And foundered deep as hell. The air is dark With souls. I cannot look--I cannot see. [Kneels. A Woman. The battle's lost before it's well begun. Our men fall down in ranks like barley-rigs Before a dense wet blast. A Cripple. Despair itself Can only die before the English bows. O that they could come at them! Who are these That skirt the marsh? Woman. My sight is weak. But see; Here's an old fellow, trembling, muttering. Look How he is strung; and what an eye he has! Cripple. Old sight sees well away. I warrant, now, His is a perfect mirror of the fight. You see well, father? Old Man. Ay. That's Edward Bruce; And none too soon. The feathered deaths speed thick