“For God and King, Prince Rupert best
Can lead our ranks to strife or rest;
Bide patiently till dawn, ye yeomen from the wes
PREPARING FOR BATTLE-MARSTON MOOR.
MEANWHILE, austere and silent stood
The long dark lines of yeomen good,
Distinct against the sky,
Along the hill unbroken spread,
All whom the fiery Fairfax led,
Their pennons fluttering overhead,
Their lances sparkling high.
The hurrying cloud its shadow cast,
Dulling their armour as it passed;
The storm gust swept their ranks amain,
The wild wrack spent its strength in vain
In crashing flight of arrowy rain.
No shrinking trooper spoiled the line,
No steed might from the rank decline,
None shunned the rushing storm;
More stern in gloom those ranks appeared,
More high their towering pennons reared,
More giant-like their form
Than when their harness bravely glowed
With sunbeams through the rifted cloud,
Or when defiant, fierce, and proud
Swelled o'er the moor their challenge loud,
And flashed on high their arm.
The storm is past. Their ranks divide,
Wheeling in troops to either side,
To take their destined post;
But now their eyes were southward bent,
As gaily to their post they went,
And gloom gave place to merriment,
And waving hands their welcome sent
To the returning host.
Then did Prince Rupert's wakeful eye
The Roundhead stratagem descry,
And mark, where late their troopers rode,
The gap their opening order shewed,
As o'er the trampled rye appears
The twinkling light of countless spears
Swift rising to the view.
So rise the stars from mountain crest,
Where climes with tropic skies are blest;
And the short eve's transparent light
Melts to the splendour of the night,
And gives no misty radiance white,
Nor aught of cloudland to the sight,
Nor aught of twilight hue.
Quick following, where the spear points shewed, The slender pikeshafts' quivering wood,
And plume and caske appeared;
Till full upon the hill's broad brow
The dark, stern lines of footmen shew,
And far upon the moor below,
To rearward of the royal foe,
Their leader's shout was heard.
There Crawford loud, with clamorous tongue,
From rank to rank impetuous flung;
And Russell brave and Montagu
To either flank their squadrons drew,
With Pickering between.
With measured pace the leaders rode,
In solid squares the pikemen strode;
Muskets in phalanx deep and broad
To stay the charge or clear the road,
On either side were seen.
With laggard steps the Scottish host.
The summit of the hill have crossed,
And, seeking safety's rearward post,
In dilatory silence tossed
Their banners to the wind;
Small hope of plunder could they spy,
With Fairfax and his troopers nigh;
'Twas plunder edged their battle-zest;
'Twas plunder spurred them to their best,
And shared with God their mind.
Rupert had robbed them of their spoil,
And brought no meed to bless their toil
In all his warlike train ;
Why risk, in England's cause, the chance
Of Rupert's sword or Border lance?
Why fight upon the plain?
With all to lose and naught to gain
Save mortal peril, wounds, and pain
And right to boast of scar and stain,
Or title to a grave with the unhonoured slain.
Such thoughts had passed through Leven's breast,
As to the Wharfe the flight he pressed;
But now to martial fire are changed
As o'er the moor his skilled eye ranged.
Such scenes dispel the gloomiest mood
That taints with doubt a soldier's blood,
And fan the embers of the fire
That discontent had bade expire.
His was a heart inured to fight
To win his cause, or wrong or right;
And rudely had that heart been schooled
In wars the Swedish monarch ruled.
Not so his men; their native greed
Had brought them headlong from the Tweed
To seek such spoil as Douglas won,
Or match the deeds by Randolf done;
For still Tradition's bloody tale
Of England's pillage, wound, and wail,
Fired Scottish breasts by hill and dale.
And oft from Cheviot's mountain brow
Their eyes with hungry light would glow;
And hungrier thoughts would southward go,
Then count with glee the ruins black
That marked old Scotland's Yorkward track,
Burning to dare where Douglas quailed,
And win the spoil where Randolf failed.
Yet once in line, for fight arrayed,
And pike met pike, and blade met blade,
Full well they plied their deadly trade,
And stubborn hardihood displayed
And rugged strength and skill.
No foe could of their mercy tell
If wounded, where they fought, he fell,
No sword had done its service well,
If e'er it failed to kill.
Their stubborn mood their leader saw,
While slowly to the line they draw,
And midway gave them post,
Where England's foot might guard their flanks
And lead the fight with those stern ranks
Lord Leven trusted most.
And well might Steeton's valiant knight
Hold peril's post on Scotland's right,
When such bold hearts were there;
Rough dalesmen fired by holy zeal
And sinewy as their own grey steel,
Material meet for war;
Nursed, where, from moorlands dark and steep
Her hundred streams to Calder leap;
And shepherds still their freedom keep,
And yeomen free their fields may reap
Amid the wilds of Aire.
A different purpose fired the zeal
Of those who fought for Commonweal;
Their aim as true and good,
Who plied the townsman's handicraft,
And bench and loom for musket left,
And now in battle stood.
Such ranks the knight of Steeton led,
And with them fought, and with them bled
On many a desperate field;
Where hearts less bold had shunned the fight, And safety sought in discreet flight,
Or evening's dusky shield.
On sullen Scotland's further flank
Loud Crawford schooled the fighting rank
In fiery accents rude,
Till, roused by his impetuous tongue,
Their good pikes to the charge they swung
And, bending o'er them, trembling hung,
As ocean tides 'gainst land-breeze flung,
Rise threatening to their flood.
While Leven gives the Scots their place,
And Baillie chides their loitering pace,
The knell for strife has rung;
And culverin and falconet,
At vantage on the hill-side set,
The battle gage have flung.
High overhead the hissing note
On Scottish ears indignant smote,
And fired them 'gainst their will;
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