In jubilant choirs, flight after singing flight: That tune must end; the nest be harried. Ride, Fiery Edward! Yet our staunch hearts quail not. Ah! now the daze begins! I know it well. The cloth-yard shafts like magic shuttles, weave Athwart the warped air dazzling, dire dismay, And the beholder's blood slinks to his heart Like moles from daylight; all his sinews fade To unsubstantial tinder. Ha! spur! spur! There are ten thousand bowmen! Gallop! Charge! Now, by the soul of Wallace, Edward Bruce, The battle's balanced! On your sword it hangs! Look you; there's fighting! Just a minute's fight! Tug, strain! Throe upon throe! Travail of war! The birth--defeat and victory, those twins, That in an instant breathe and die, and leave So glorious and so dread a memory!-- The bowstring's cut! What butchery to see! They shear them down, these English yeomen! God! It looks like child's play too! And so it feels, Now I remember me.--That's victory. St. Andrew and the right! Woman. The knights, the knights! Old Man. I see them. But our spearmen! Do you see? This hill we stand on trembles with the shock: They budge not, planted, founded in the soil. Another charge! Now watch! Now see! Ugh! Ha! Did one spear flicker? One limb waver? No! These fellows there are fighting for their land! The English army through its cumbrous bulk Thrilled and astounded to the utmost rear, Twists like a snake, and folds into itself, Rank pushed through rank. Now are they hand to hand! How short a front! How close! They're sewn together With steel cross-stitches, halbert over sword, Spear across lance, and death the purfled seam! I never saw so fierce, so locked a fight! That tireless brand that like a pliant flail Threshes the lives from sheaves of Englishmen-- Know you who wields it? Douglas, who but he! A noble meets him now. Clifford it is! No bitterer foes seek out each other there. Parried! That told! and that! Clifford, good night! And Douglas shouts to Randolf; Edward Bruce Cheers on the Steward; while the King's voice rings In every Scotch ear: such a narrow strait Confines this firth of war! Young Friar. God gives me strength Again to gaze with eyes unseared. Jewels! These must be jewels peering in the grass, Cloven from helms, or on them: dead men's eyes Scarce shine so bright. The banners dip and mount Like masts at sea. The battle-field is slime, A ruddy lather beaten up with blood! Men slip; and horses, stuck with shafts like butts, Sprawl, madly shrieking! No, I cannot look! [Exit. Woman. Look here! look here, I say! Who's this behind? His horse sinks down--the brute is dead, I think. His clothes are torn; his face with dust and sweat Encrusted, baked, and cracked. He speaks; he shouts; And shouting runs this way. He's mad, I think. Cripple. He's made his hearers mad. Tents, blankets, poles, Pitch-forks, and staves, and knives, brandished and spread By women, children, grandsires! What is this?